


The Gentle Hills

by thankgodforpandas



Series: The Seeds of Redcurrant [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Prequel to relationship, Slow Burn, sexual abuse - canon compliant, underage sex - canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankgodforpandas/pseuds/thankgodforpandas
Summary: Surrender! Your champion is dead! The Starburst has fallen, Damen wants to yell, gazing at the endless rows of Vere’s assembled army. Instead, his vision goes black and he falls face down in the mud.
As fickle as the flip of a coin, Damen’s strength fails and history is rewritten.





	1. The Treaty

**Author's Note:**

> I want to highlight the tags on the piece of fiction. It diverges from the Canon at the battle of Marlas and will heavily feature, although never as the main protagonist, the Regent, and everything that comes with the Regent in the canon. Please proceed with the necessary caution.  
> Further, although tagged as Laurent/Damen, this is a prequel to a future relationship, since the story picks up at the Battle of Marlas.  
> That said, I hope you enjoy this.

 

He feels the blade plunge almost effortlessly in the meat of his belly. Pain blooms hot, intolerable and the breath leaves Damen’s lungs in a surprised burst. Already, he can feel the hot wetness spreading around the steel but cannot bear to glance down at his wound, still caught in the blazing gaze of Auguste’s eyes.

“Yield,” Auguste rasps. His grip on his sword is shaky and exhaustion wrecks the handsome lines of his face, but there is no hesitation or remorse despite the pain of countless hours of battle, only ruthless determination. This is the face of a warrior, of a leader of men and Damen’s enemy.

Damen roars as he drives himself forward on Auguste’s sword and in a wide arc slams this edge of his own sword in the tender sinews of Auguste’s neck.

The prince of Vere goes down instantly, face frozen in shock. Damen staggers back and coughs, feeling the rusty taste of blood on his tongue as Auguste’s blade slips out of his body. His hand reaches slowly for the wound.

_Surrender! Your champion is dead! The Starburst has fallen,_ Damen wants to yell, gazing at the endless rows of Vere’s assembled army. Instead, his vision goes black and he falls face down in the mud.

 

Distantly, he hears screams, the chaos of war. Clangs of metal and the sick squishing sound of downtrodden dirt. He feels hands on his armpits, dragging him away. Screams, high-pitched screams, full of anguish. The taste of blood and mud against his cracked lips.

 

“My lord, he might not survive the journey,” a voice echoes. The sound is distorted, muffled as if he was drifting in the warm Ellosean sea. Damen moans. He barely hears himself.

“Nevertheless, we ride. In your best interest, keep him alive,” a quiet, precise voice says next to him as Damen feels cold fingers settle against the pulsing beat at his throat. “And sedated.”

                                                                  

He comes to slowly, moaning. His chest feels tight and hot. He tries to blink, but his eyelids are heavy, stuck by grit.

“Yes, good, slowly,” a voice says gently. A cool washcloth passes across his face, down his neck. “Try again.”

Damen opens his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness. The face of an old man is bent over his, watching him intently.

“Good, good,” the man says. He lifts Damen’s neck gently and tilts a cup against Damen’s lips. “Now drink.”

The water is cool but Damen can barely swallow. Beyond the edge of the rim, he sees the room, heavy with ornamentation. White intricate moldings curve around the high ceiling, hugging the corners of the room in imitations of fruits and leaves. Heavily embroidered drapes in golden hues frame a window, where translucent glasses reflect the faint hues of dusk. The gentle light bathes the empty rows of sturdy beds, made of dark carved wood, and contrasts the hunched figures of the few other occupants of the room. All visibly sick or injured. All frightened and shying away from Damen. All light-skinned and clear-eyed. Damen’s heart pulses under his skin and he feels the edge of panic clog his throat. “Where--” he rasps. “Where am I?”

The old man sighs and gently releases Damen’s neck before he straightens, taking a careful step back. The man wears a long robe, fastened with tight laces across his chest. Under the open collar the edge of a shirt, laden by precise needlepoint, a shirt peeks through. 

“I am Paschal. I was charged with tending your wound,” he finally says and although the language is formal, it is halting, heavily accented. A Veretian speaking Akielos. “You are in Arles, Prince Damianos.”

Damen raises a shaky hand to his chest, where a dull ache pulses with the rhythm of his heartbeat. “W-what?”

“Please do not --” Paschal huffs in annoyance. “Please do not disturb the bindings,” he says, switching to Veretian. “The wound has not yet healed. It was—it is very deep. You almost died.”

Damen launches himself at the physician. His muscles barely respond and he struggles to ignore the searing pain in his belly as he grabs the man’s neck. His fists barely close around the wrinkled skin of the man’s throat, his strength already exhausted by the sudden movement.

“Please!” Paschal rasps and pushes against Damen, breaking Damen’s feeble hold easily. Paschal rushes to a table, covered by papers and vials, and Damen staggers after him.

“What--” Damen croaks. “Why am I here?”

“The treaty of Marlas!” Paschal thrusts an illuminated scroll in his hand. “You were sent here as part of the war retributions--”

“Lies!” Damen snarls. He remembers striking Auguste down. The war was won for Akielos, the last rampart of Vere’s army falling with their commander, the man who held their lines against each new wave of attack. Auguste fell and Damianos triumphed. They surrendered—His father was victorious—But Damen’s mind is blank and he only remembers the taste of mud and high-pitched screams, the slow rocking of a wagon.

“Please, Lord,” Paschal says gently as he grabs Damen’s elbow, trying to guide towards the bed. “You are still weak.”

Damen sways on his feet, but he wrenches the scroll from Paschal’s grasp. The words almost blur as he tries to decipher the slanted script of the Veretian scribe.

_To the victorious Crown of Vere, here embodied by the new Regent’s authority, for the retribution of the grievous invasion of Vere’s territory and the murder of King Aleron and Crown Prince Auguste in bold defiance of a warrior’s honor and the honest laws of warfare, I send my son and heir, Damianos, to be fostered in Arles, to be taught and to serve until his crimes against the people of Vere are deemed pardoned._

And at the bottom, like a curse, his father’s seal and signature.

Hours – minutes? – seem to pass. The ink has blurred across the crumpled paper. Still, their meaning does not change and Damen can barely breathe. He lies back against the soft cotton of the bedding. Rich surrounding and expensive linen. Fit for a palace. The Veretian seat of power.

Damen feels vaguely sick and does not complain when Paschal prods gently at his wound, fussing with the bandage, now faintly red.

“You’re lying,” Damen says, but the wax of his Father’s seal is thick and bright red. The raised edges of the crowned lion sharp and true. Damen closes his eyes briefly. “I—I can’t remember.”

Paschal is silent for a long time. Mechanically, he removes the soiled bandages and prods Damen’s wound. Blood is pouring sluggishly from the jagged edge of the wound, where black, thin strings have ruptured. Damen has no strength left to fight the physician as he slowly seals the wound shut, then covers it with a thick, cool ointment and wraps Damen’s torso in immaculate, white cotton with swift, practiced gestures.

“I am only a physician,” Paschal says as he calmly puts away his instruments. “I was not present at Marlas and will not risk propagating false rumors. I can only say that your wounds are not yet healed and such outbursts will only bring you pain. Know that you should be dead by all accounts. Know also that you may treated as my patient but the doors to this chamber are guarded.”

“Then I am your prisoner,” Damen snarls.

“Of course not,” Paschal says, a warning edge creeping in the flat grey of his eyes. “You are the esteemed guest of the Regent.”

The physician turns away from Damen, a clear dismissal, and moves to fuss over the other patients, still startled and fearful after Damen’s outburst. From the corner of his eyes, Damen spies the clear glass windows and the darkening shapes of trees and stone walls. His fists close around the ruined paper of the treaty of Marlas and he close his eyes.

It is dark when he opens them again. The slow methodic steps of Paschal have long gone silent. The air is only disturbed by the rhythmic breaths of the other inhabitants of the sickroom, the occasional ruffle of cloth and moan of pain. Damen rises slowly, left bare in the dark. He finds Paschal’s outer garment, left draped over the back of a chair, and he struggles to put it on, careful of the limited range of his left arm. After a few fumbling attempts, he gives up on the laces and tucks one pane of the robe under his left arm, protecting his wound. The robe is snug around his shoulders and barely reaches the top of his calves.

The window opens without a creak and Damen carefully climbs over the sill, letting himself fall in the open courtyard. The impact brings him to his knees and he has to fight the rising nausea, letting himself breathe, gripping the uneven cobblestones. It takes endless moments for his vision to clear.  

“I presume you were only warned of the guards outside the door,” a nonchalant voice says behind him as a shadow detaches itself from the wall. “Not those outside the window.”

The man is tall and lean, with thin, brown hair brushing the top of his broad shoulders to frame a handsome face. Even without the hand he rested casually on the smooth pommel of his sword, Damen would have known him to be a soldier.

“Are you truly trying to escape?” he asks with a smile. “Look at you, you can barely stand. Weak as a kitten. Naked as a worm.”

“I am no-one’s captive,” Damen says, struggling to his feet. “I am a Prince, born to rule. You have no authority--”

“I need no authority,” the man interrupts calmly. “As I see it, your Highness, I have all the power I need.”

Rapid as a snake, he slams his fist in Damen’s left side, catching the hidden wound with uncanny precision. Pain explodes and Damen crumples to his knees, curling around his belly like an animal, as waves of bile spout from his lips. 

“Have you not heard?” the man asks, unperturbed by Damen’s retching. “A glorious but fragile peace has been reached between our two nations. Our kingdoms friends again. Our borders unchanged. Hope for peace and growth despite the savage bloodshed of the field at Marlas and the tragedies thrust upon the Crown of Vere.”

“I did not kill your King”, Damen grits.

“Perhaps,” the man shrugs as he scoots down next to Damen. “But it does not matter. It was an arrow from your army that found my King’s heart and as their Prince, you shall repent. I was sent by the Regent to warn you, Prince-Killer. Try to escape again and I will have no qualms to kill you. Nor will any other soldier in this city. If you ever want to return to the coasts of Ios, then, as our fair treaty, signed by your own father, requires, first you will serve.”

“I do not _serve_ anyone but my father and the realm of Akielos,” Damen spits. “You cannot keep me here.”

The man stares at him quietly, unfazed. “Very well, then it is my duty to tell you that, should you succeed in escaping, it is your retinue that we will kill.”

Damen feels his eye widen. “My—Who?”

“Did you think you were sent here alone? Oh no,” the man smiles. “Your slaves accompany you, but of course, they are kept outside the city to preserve Vere’s morality. Ten of them, I think. All girls, all beautiful. Yes, all quite defenseless.”

“You bastard--”

“Of course, your closest friend Nikandros remained with them,” the man continues. “To preserve their virtue. To ensure their comfort and well-being.”

Damen’s mind goes blank.

“Yes, he volunteered to accompany you during your fostering. A true, loyal friend,” the man says as he stands up gracefully, brushing unseen dirt from his trousers. “He will die too if you rebel, probably long before your slaves. They will be kept, to be raped and enjoyed, until their bellies grow thick with child and their use has run out. This is what you face, if you do not serve, your Highness. This is the Regent’s warning to you.”

His tone is almost jovial and he smiles at Damen. Two shallow dimples appear in his cheeks.   

“He also suggests that you rest. As his guest, he only wishes for your prompt recovery.”

The soldier takes a moment to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

 “Ah, I almost forgot,” he adds, towering over Damen. “The Prince also sends a message.”

And savagely, he slams the heel of his boot into Damen’s belly.


	2. The Tree

It’s Paschal who finds him in the morning, still collapsed and half-naked under the window sill. He is silent as he helps Damen to climb awkwardly over the ledge of the window, rather than face the long and painful detour to the sickroom through unseen corridors. Damen’s head pounds when he finally settles back against the cool sheets of his sick bed. In a mirror image of the previous day, the physician carefully unwraps his bandages, tend to his mangled wound and binds his chest again, careful of his now bruised ribs.

“Sleep now, Lord,” Paschal finally mutters, resting a dry hand against Damen’s forehead. Damen obeys.

 

He does not try to escape again. Instead, he keeps to his bed and eats the food that Paschal himself brings with unerring regularity. Bread and lukewarm soup, for the most part. He does not complain about the blandness of his meals, refuses to miss the taste of dill and fresh mint. The thick, creamy mush of vegetables and bones suit his recovering body. Sometimes, he receives a piece of cheese, tough and fragrant, far from the soft white flesh of the Akielon varieties. Dutifully, he chews, the taste merciless and foreign on his tongue.

Thankfully, the water is always clear and cool.

The sickroom is quiet most days. Damen makes a discreet study of the other occupants. Men, all of them. Young, for the most part. The majority hides white bandages similar to those Damen wears on his bare chest under thin cotton shirts. He has often seen similar injuries in his years serving his father’s army. These patients are soldiers, nursing deep gashes and broken bones, faces white with blood loss. Despite the regular stream of visitors that stop at their bedside, their faces remain grim. It is an unpleasant status to be injured, too ill to revel in the end of the war and toast the dead, and too alive to receive the blessing of those toasts. They are left, forgotten. Damen never realized the loneliness of recovery. When he was accidently injured by Kastor, there had been a constant stream of friends and well-wishers to his bedside. Now, he lets his body recover in silence, taking small bites of pungent cheese, clenching and unclenching his fists rhythmically under the linens.

He watches Paschal come and go between his patients’ beds, working without fatigue. The days pass and some soldiers leave their bed, helped by parents and spouses who wear expensive clothes. Some do not recover. On the fourth day, a boy, looking no older than seventeen, offers his last breath. Damen watches him die, wondering how many are dying in the South while he lies in this polite prison.

After one more week, the fist he makes hidden under the sheets stays strong and true. He waits two more days before he can bear it no longer, and leaves the confines of his bed.

He stands bare for a moment, reacquainting himself with the slow pull of the muscles in his legs. He rolls his shoulders carefully, feeling only languidness on his right side and a faint twitch of discomfort at his left. He rolls them again, then stretch his arms high above his head. He is immediately rewarded by a sharp sting as the movement pulls at his wound. He grits his teeth, ignores it.

He walks to the window. Again, it opens without a creak. He finds no-one standing vigil next to it and he breathes slowly until his fingers not longer have the wood of the window sill in a death grip.

“There are clothes in the console, next to the window,” Paschal says behind him. “Help yourself.”

The physician barely glances at Damen, working with quiet concentration on the mangled limbs of an unconscious soldier.

They are heaps of clothes in the console. He takes him a while before he finds a white shirt that might accommodate the broadness of his shoulders. He is not so picky with the trousers and makes do with a pair of dark linen pants that are tight around his calves and do not quite close around his waist.

Shirt in hand, he approaches Paschal.

The physician does not acknowledge him, still bent on his work. He carefully cleans the stump of pus and blood, applying a salve that does not look unlike the one Damen has come to know quite well. Damen is quietly impressed. He has seen such wounds on soldiers before. All died a painful death, only plied by attendants with poppy milk to ease their passage. No physicians usually bother with those doomed patients, and yet, Paschal works on until the angry stripes of flesh are hidden again by bandages.

When Paschal finally gives him his attention, Damen gestures at himself pointedly.

“I need to wash.”

Paschal blinks. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Your wound is still fragile. Contact with water could--”

“Indulge me.”

Paschal presses his lips briefly, but does not argue further. He leads Damen to an adjacent chamber. It is small and unwelcoming, but warm. There is a small bath, already full and steaming. The only source of light is a small window, high in the wall.  

“Do not soak the wound,” Paschal snaps and leaves him alone.   

He discards his clothes on a small stand and picks up a water scoop, working a lather against his gritty skin. On purpose, he moves slowly, making slow circles against his skin, chasing the soap with water a touch too warm. He washes his hair thoroughly, favoring his right arm to massage his scalp. Finally, he unwraps the grimy bandages and uncovers the wound. It does not look as bad as it used to. The black sutures have already dissolved in his flesh, leaving only his body to mend and fuse. He washes carefully the edges of the scar, where repeated applications of ointment have left his skin sticky.

He ends up ignoring Paschal and lets himself sink in the small sunken tub. He has to curl in the small space, folding his legs close to his chest. The water is almost too warm. Already his wound pulses uncomfortably, but Damen hides his face against his knees and lets himself breathe.

The careful leash he kept on his mind and body breaks as he feels his breath coming in short puffs against his wet thighs. His head spins in the heat. The blood pulses in his ears as he lets his rage and confusion flood his mind.

He cannot understand it. Why would his father have sent him here? To Vere? The battle had been won when Auguste fell. Why then is he here? To be humiliated and beaten in the night?

_Father, am I not your son and heir?_ Damen thinks wildly. _Have you forsaken me?_

He cannot understand it. There is no purpose to his presence here, only abject subjugation. Damen is a Prince, a leader of men. He will not _serve_ another King’s court, least of all a realm, least of all Vere where depravity and perfidy reign absolute.

He has no mind for games and politics. He knows war, the cost of blood and sweat. His weapons are flesh and steel. He has not the means to defend against treachery and blackmail.

He must tread carefully. He must- He must talk to Nikandros. Nikandros would know.

At the thought of his friend, a wave of anguish crashes over him. Which slaves would have been brought with him? Helena? Kyma? They cried when he rode off to Marlas and he had been weak, had decided to bring them along despite the dangers. He could not—He could not bear it.

He knows not how to lie and mislead but he knows how to protect and he would not fail his household, even if this foreign land of snakes.

Damen dries himself slowly and puts on his clothes only when his hands have stopped shaking. Dressed again, he manages to unclench his jaw and he breathes, bringing his rage under control calling to the discipline that has been drilled into him since infancy.  

 

Paschal is not alone as Damen rejoins the main room. There’s a boy, not sixteen, standing in the open doorway. He looks uncertain, shoulders hunched as he stares at the floor. Paschal has a hand on the boy’s shoulder, face scrunched in obvious worry.   

“Eliante,” Paschal says. “I’ve already told you not to come here.”

The boy bites his lower lip. The effect of it is lovely. In a few more years, the boy will be an attractive man. For now, his features, thick brown hair and smooth skin, seem at odds with the lankiness of his limbs.

“What is the matter?”

For the first time, Damen hears a tinge of softness creep in Paschal’s voice. Despite his care to the others patients, the old man’s voice always remained calm and professional, cold even. And yet, as he lifts the boy’s chin to meet his eyes, there’s real warmth to his voice.

The boy is crying. Heavy tear tracks run down his pretty cheeks.

“I--” the boy tries, his voice still high with youth.

He catches sight of Damen, hulking by the door, and his body goes rigid. There’s a tense moment, where Damen hesitates. The three of them stare at each other, suddenly unsure.

It only lasts a second. Paschal bends close to the boy, whispering quiet words in the boy’s ear and closes the door behind the boy as he scampers away hurriedly.  

“Friend of yours?” Damen asks.

But Paschal only gestures to Damen’s bed, already reaching for his tools.

“I told you not to soak the wound,” Paschal says. His face has reverted back to cold pragmatism, but Damen did not miss the emotion etched deep in his eyes. He thought it worry, but he was wrong. It was helplessness on Paschal’s face.

Damen wonders as he lets Paschal work on his wound. Paschal who helps amputated soldiers. Paschal, who face overwhelming odds of grievous injuries with impassive coldness. Paschal, who is brought down, helpless, by the tears of a pretty boy. 

 

The next morning, two men stride into the room. One is a servant, carrying a bundle in his arms. Damen feels his lips curl as he recognizes the second man, the soldier who so effectively relayed the Regent’s warning and the many, many messages of the Prince of Vere. His features look less handsome in the light of the day, betraying his age and revealing the faint lines at the edges of his mouth but he looks no weaker, dressed in leather and black cloth.

He smiles at Damen. “The Regent requests your presence.”

“Leyandre,” Paschal says. “He is still weak.”

The soldier, Leyandre, glances calmly at the physician. He lets the moment stretch until Paschal drops his gaze.  

“Do not exert yourself. Let your wound heal and come here every morning. I will change your bandages,” Paschal says and leaves them.

Leyandre gestures at the bundle in the servant’s arms. “Wear this.”

Damen is keenly aware of Leyandre’s assessing gaze as he puts on the Veretian clothing. The trousers and the fine leather boots he can manage with relative ease, but the jacket is laced in the back. Wordlessly, the servant moves behind him and works on the laces with quiet efficiency. It takes a long time, despite the servant’s deft fingers and Damen makes a conscious effort not to fidget at the combined weight of the servant’s fingers brushing against his back and Leyandre’s unrelenting gaze.

“Now, you look more of a worthy opponent,” Leyandre comments softly, when the servant finally steps back. “Come with me.”

Leyandre turns his back carelessly as he leads Damen out of the sickroom. There are guards posted by the room, but Damen barely notices them. He is struck first by the grandiosity of the corridor. The floor is inlaid with black and white stones. Marbles arches hug the sides of the corridor, punctuated with regal statues at even intervals, giving a strange impression of depth. It is loud and beautiful, nothing like the understated elegance of his father’s palace.

Their steps echo in the corridor. They walk for long minutes, encountering scattered citizens, who stop and stare at Damen without shame, and servants, who have no time to stare and scurry along. Damen carefully makes note of the twist and turn of halls and branches of corridors, counting statues and arches before each turn, committing paintings and decorations to his memory. He has grown up in the castle of Ios, yet, he can barely comprehend the size of the Veretian palace. The rumble of the city seems distant. In Ios, he can always hear the sounds of bells and the crashing of waves. Here the thick stone walls muffle all sounds, giving a strange impression of isolation.

Leyandre finally stops in front of heavy wooden doors, guarded by armored soldiers. Behind the doors, Damen can hear the low growl of too many voices speaking at the same time. Damen wonders if he should have taken the opportunity to find his way out of the palace. The guards were few, his wound was barely painful. He could overtake the soldier, who barely looked at Damen anymore-

“You might look the part,” Leyandre says, glancing over his shoulder at Damen as if he could hear his thoughts, “but you are still the kitten.”

The soldier pushes the door open to reveal the assembled court of Vere.

The countless courtiers fall silent at once and the sudden hush makes them melt in an amorphous black mass of bodies and cloth. All courtiers are dressed in deep black, women and men hiding their faces behind sheer dark gauzes. Damen has to squint to distinguish bodies from the distance, the monotone of their clothing blending them into one nameless entity.

_Mourning,_ Damen realizes with a start.

The mood is subdued. There are no musicians, no delicacies or wine carried by servants. Damen has heard tales of the exuberance of Vere’s court. As Leyandre grabs his elbow and pushes him forward, Damen feels as he steps into a graveyard. The mass of dark bodies clashes with the bright splendor of the room. Vibrant tapestries hang at each side of the room, too rich and charged for Damen to decipher. 

Thousand eyes follow his process and the sound of hushed comments rise as a tidal wave as Damen steps further into the room. The black fog of courtiers seems to shift and undulate as men bend to whisper in their neighbor’s ears, women raise their hands to their mouth to hide their comments. Damen feels bile pool at the back of his throat. Leyandre comes to an abrupt stop, tightening his grip almost painfully around Damen’s elbow.

_Stand tall,_ Damen suddenly hears his father’s voice whisper in his head. _You are a son of Ios._

Damen straightens his spine, ignoring the muttering mass of hidden courtiers at his back, and squares his jaw. He stands in front of the raised dais. At the center, a man sits leisurely in a large chair draped in red velvet. Damen barely gives him a moment’s consideration, caught instantly in the blazing hatred of the child sitting next to him. He could never have imagined such eyes and hair on a breathing being. It seems unfair that such beauty could be bestowed upon a single person, even more when it is all ruined by the angry frown distorting the smooth plane of his forehead, the dark shadows marring under his eyes. The boy holds himself at his edge of his seat, knuckles white as they grip the blue velvet of his chair. He shifts, gaze alternating between the man next to him and Damen, restlessness telegraphing his unease with painful clarity.

The intensity of his eyes reminds him of Auguste, and abruptly Damen understands.

_The Prince of Vere sends a message._   

Auguste had a younger brother.

The Regent rises leisurely from his red-decked chair and spreads his arms wide.

“Damianos,” he says, voice clear and solemn, “we welcome you to Arles.”

The Regent bows solemnly, exposing the weak spot behind his head. Damen can barely breathe. He wants to scream, draw the absent sword at his side and slam the blade in the exact same spot he found on Auguste’s exposed neck. He hears the titters of the assembled court grow at his back as the words continue to fail him.

_Say something,_ he thinks, but he can only think of violence and bloodshed, unable to reach the lessons his father once imposed on him. His mind only circles around the humiliation of Leyandre’s beating and the brazen threats delivered to his face.

Unexpectedly, the young prince of Vere saves him from the stretching silence.

“Welcome?” the prince yells, jerking from his chair. “You welcome this murderer to my father’s hall?”

He stalks to the edge of the dais, hands clenched at his side, until he’s face to face with Damen.

“The only welcome I would grant this animal is the hospitality of the cross,” he spits viciously. “Let him bleed like a pig in the mud as my brother did because of him.”

Damen almost takes a step back in surprise. The echo of the courtiers’ shocked reactions spreads like rumbling thunder across the room. Faintly, Damen hears barely concealed laughter.

“Forgive my nephew, Damianos,” the Regent says. His hand settles on the prince’s shoulder, curling behind his neck and spreading down his chest like a spider. “Loss weighs heavily on his young soul.”

Damen looks at Auguste’s brother, Laurent. He seems feral, barely restrained by his uncle’s hold on his shoulders and Damen understands that despite the many wars he’d already participated in, he’d never really encountered true hatred.

“I offer no apology,” Damen says, pronouncing the unusual lilting sounds of the Veretian language carefully. “I am a soldier and only fulfilled my duty to my Liege and father--”

“You killed my brother!”

The young prince’s scream resonates in the hall.

_I did. It was war,_ Damen wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat. With the help of the dais, they’re almost of a height, the boy and him. So close, he can see the high flush on the prince’s cheeks, his eyes barely holding in tears. The Regent bends close to his nephew’s ear and Damen only sees the slight tightening of his hand around Laurent’s throat before the Regent straightens again, stepping forward. 

“You have deprived Vere’s people of much, Damianos of Akielos,” the Regent says, hiding Laurent from view. “How will you atone for those nefarious deeds?”

The Regent is a man in his prime, commanding and strong. He looks nothing like his nephew, whose countenance seems weak and childish. He has lost a brother and a nephew to the war. Yet, there are no grooves below his eyes. He carries the black jacket of mourning easily.

“It was war,” Damen sneers. “War that has been waged for centuries between Akielos and Vere. I am no more responsible that you are, Regent.”

“Yet here I stand,” the Regent’s says, gesturing to the raised dais, then nodding at Damen, standing below him. “And here you are.” 

It takes Damen a moment to understand the insult behind the soft-spoken comment and he feels the heat rise up unbidden to his cheeks. His careful control over his temper wavers. His bruised pride threatens to rise up and choke him.

He’s rarely been insulted before.

He suffered with good humor the jeers of fellow soldiers as he grew up, the good-natured jibes of his close friends, of his brother. But insulting the King’s kin is treason. No-one would dare.

_Exalted,_ they call him in Ios, their voices muffled against the smooth stones of the floor as they lay prostrated on the ground, knowing that they are not worthy to gaze upon the face of royalty.

And yet, here he stands, miles and miles away from the cool marble of Ios, where all fall to their knees in his presence. His father sent him here, to crane his neck so he can look at Vere’s regent, a second-son, whose head would never wear a crown. There is something cold in the man’s eyes, the edge of a challenge, as if he knew of Damen’s disgust and dared him to rebel.

Damen bites his cheeks, feeling blood burst in his mouth. “My father sends me here to mend the rift between our countries,” Damen forces himself to say through the rage and the pain. “I will do as he commands.”

“You are our guest,” the Regent says and he takes a step back, dragging an arm across his nephew’s shoulders, bringing him close to his side. “My nephew welcomes your service to the crown.”

_He does nothing of the sort,_ Damen thinks, just as the young prince flinches in disgust.

“Take him away from me,” Laurent barks, not quite managing to hide the wobble of his voice. “Let him rot. It is the best service he can offer.”

Leyandre appears at his side immediately, grasping Damen’s elbow without ceremony. Damen’s patience finally snaps.

“Wait,” he growls, shrugging off the soldier’s hold. He takes a step forward and the prince flinches away from him. With the raised dais, the young prince and he are of a height, but Damen is tall and broad. His frame has already filled out with the relentless exertion of war. Laurent is all bones and pleasing angles, his skin smooth and pink. Damen could break him in two.

_You are just a child. I would not hurt you,_ Damen wants to say, but that would be a lie. Auguste still lies dead in the ground, somewhere between Marlas and Arles.

“I-” Damen hesitates, letting his hand fall. When Leyandre’s hands grab his arm again, he lets himself be led away.

 

Leyandre does not escort him back to the sickroom. Instead, Damen is brought to small chambers in a new wing of the palace. There are guards posted next to the oak doors, more further down the sides sides of the corridor. They look alert and well-armed, not the kind to be overlooked.

The chambers are large but already feel claustrophobic to Damen. The walls are plastered with red velvet, embossed with vines and flowers. Heavy drapes, woven with shades of gold and orange, obscure two sets of man-high windows. At the end of the room, a monstrosity of a bed lords over the rest of the furniture. The coverlet and pillows match the drapes, match the settee, match the upholstery of the armchairs. Even the wooden floor is inlaid with gold filigree.

“This was all a dream, wasn’t it,” Damen mutters to himself. “I have been eaten and digested by a beast.”

“Red and gold to match the color of your house,” Leyandre says, face carefully blank. “This is Vere’s hospitality.”

“How considerate,” says Damen and tries not to gag.

“Meals will be brought to you thrice a day unless you are summoned to join the court. You may bath through here.” And he gestures towards a small door next to the bed. “Servants will attend you and ensure your -”

“The ones who came here with me,” Damen interrupts. “Where are they? I demand to see them.”        

“You _demand_ ,” Leyandre drawls. “The kitten already shows its claws.”

He is on the soldier before he realizes it. He slams him into the wall, the crash muffled by the velvet.    

“Use that word one more time,” Damen hisses. So close, he can see specks of brown in the man’s blue eyes, every line of his blank expression. Damen has not forgotten that first night. Few men have raised their hands against him outside a training ring and lived to tell the tale.

His anger makes him careless. The pommel of Leyandre’s sword sinks mercilessly in the sore side of his belly. The pain is so sharp he loses his grip and Leyandre pushes him away like he weighs nothing.  

“You won’t be able to rely on that trick forever,” Damen pants. “One day, it will be healed.”

“Looks to me you’ll be dead long before that,” Leyandre snorts and leaves without a backward glance.   

 

The door slams behind him and Damen roars, blinded by anger. He rushes forward and grasps the drapes in both hands. He tugs and tugs, until bits of paint and velvet shake loose from the wall and the curtain track breaks in two. The drapes collapse on the floor. Damen does the same for the second, the third window until he stands the room is bathed in sunlight, bright and unforgiving.

He breathes heavily. Through the window, he sees a mighty tree. It sits, majestic, in the middle of a square. Arranged around its trunk, Damen sees the many stalls of a market and the moving figures of merchants advertising their wares.

His hands still shake with anger, bright and red. He grasps the curtain railing and pulls with all his strength until it detaches from the wall.  

The wood is straight and well made. It will do.

Muscle memory leads him in the familiar stances of army drills. He uses the wooden stick as a sword, fighting against an unseen enemy. He loses track of time, letting his body sweat, ignoring the pain, until the creak of the door breaks his concentration.

“I see that you have redecorated,” says a voice. “I am glad you are making yourself at home.”

Damen stands slowly to face the Regent. Behind him, Leyandre stands, hand lying gently on the pommel of his sword. Damen wipes his face, aware of the sweat-drenched state of his clothes, the ruined drapes lying on the floor like a betrayal to his temper, and chooses to ignore it.

“I am partial to sunlight,” says Damen and says no more.

The Regent steps into the room and does not hesitates as he takes a seat in one of the armchair. He crosses his legs, resting his hands in his lap. The Regent is a handsome man even if he does not share the radiance of his brother and nephews. A powerful man in his own right.

“You must have many questions,” the Regent says.

Damen has more than that, but he starts with the more obvious one. “What am I doing here?”

“The twin tragedies that my house has suffered have shown that anything is possible, even peace between our two nations,” the Regent says. “I saw hope in you, a possibility for trust and love to grow between Vere and Akielos, where there is only suspicion and hate.”

“You have kept me here for days, alone and injured. You bring me to your court to be scolded by the whelp you call your nephew,” Damen growls. “Is that how you show your love?”

“I understand how this must look to you,” the Regent says. “Petty intimidation and gratuitous violence.”

This is exactly what it looks like to Damen.  

“I must apologize,” the Regent says. He slumps in the armchair, resting his arms on his knees. “I fear the burden of the Crown is heavy on my shoulders. I never thought I would-” The Regent shakes his head. “This is all new for me, and I shall make more mistakes, but it is my duty to preserve the Crown until my nephew comes of age.”

Damen hesitates. This is not what he expected to hear.

“Laurent is young and inexperienced,” the Regent continues. “Worse, he is full of rage and resentment-”

“Tell it to me as it is, Regent,” Damen interrupts. He uses his voice of command, as he has done to his armies since his first campaign at fifteen. “Am I your prisoner here?”

The Regent’s eyes widen in shock. “Of course not, you are our guest. You are free to do as you like,” the Regent says. “Within the laws of Vere, of course.”

Damen nods. “Those who followed with me here. My kinsmen, where are they? I want to see them.”

There’s a split moment of hesitation across the Regent’s face, where his expression can’t quite decide how to settle, but it’s gone too fast for Damen to decipher. The Regent smiles. “Of course, you must be eager to see them.” He gestures to Leyandre. “My captain will take you there tomorrow morning.”

_Captain,_ Damen repeats. He looks at Leyandre, still leaning against the wall, and lets the new title redefine the soldier.

“Good,” Damen says.

 

Leyandre is there in the morning, waiting as Damen dresses clumsily. There are only Veretian clothes in the dressers and it takes him precious moments to find a jacket with laces on the front, so he can dress himself without the annoying interference of servants.

It’s almost high noon when he is finally ready and the captain leads him out of the castle. Leyandre leads him through back alley ways and narrow streets, where they encounter few people, who carefully turn their heads away as they pass by. They walk for a long time before Leyandre stops in front of a villa. He knocks twice, and the door opens almost immediately, revealing the clean interior and Nikandros, standing there, broad-shouldered and brown-skinned.

Damen steps forward and only when he hears the door slams behind him, blindly falls forward into Nikandros’ embrace.

“Brother,” he breathes against the warm skin of his friend’s neck.

The strong arms of Nikandros wrap around him, almost too tight for an instant, before his friend pushes him away, grabbing Damen’s face between his hands.

“I thought you dead,” Nikandros says, eyes bright. “There were no words—The Veretians, they wouldn’t say-”

Damen grabs Nikandros’ wrists and squeezes them gently. “I live.”

They stare at each other, unable to break the comfort of the moment. They’ve been friends for so long. From infancy through war, always Nikandros was at his side. Now, he looks tired, older than he’s ever been. There is so much Damen wants to say, so much he has to ask, but the thoughts are jumbled in his mind.

“Come, Damanios,” Nikandros says, and leads him to an adjacent room.

They lie on the floor, prostrated, the sheer silks of their garments spread around them like petals.

“Exalted,” his slaves breathe as one.

He sees his favorites, Kyma and Helena directly before him. Their light hair is arranged carefully around their heads, revealing the elegant line of their napes, enticing Damen to follow the bumps of their spines until he reaches the suggestive curve of their buttocks. Behind them, he sees the rest of his household, girls he no longer uses in bed but are invaluable in other ways. Sappho, who knows the old tales best. Airlia, whose soft singing voice fills the long hours of winter months.

“Rise”, says Damen, extending a hand.

Only the soft rustle of silks disturbs the silence as ten slaves move in unison and come to kneel before him. He slowly cards his fingers through Kyma’s hair. With the other hand, he cups Helena’s chin, reveling at the smoothness of her young skin. She kisses his palm, a daring feat. Her lips are soft, softer than anything Damen seems to remember, and he feels a hint of wetness as her tongue dips between her open lips to tease his skin.

“Look at me,” Damen says. Kyma and Helena crane their neck immediately. Their twin features are lovely, their sweetness and obedience unchanged despite their new circumstances. Contentment graces their faces, their eyes half-lidded as Damen motions them to stand. He leads them to the low floor cushions, barely aware of Nikandros leaving the room.

Helena sits behind him, kissing his neck softly. Damen can feel her breasts pressed tightly against his back while Kyma undoes the laces on his shirt. She’s clumsy, so Damen strokes her hair to reassure her until the shirt falls away. Helena pushes him backward and he lets her rest his head on her thighs, lets her play with his hair while Kyma removes his trousers and takes his cock into her mouth. It’s almost too much already, the heat of her, so he pushes her head away, and rolls over, sinking between her thighs in one smooth motion. She welcomes him with a soft sigh, smiling when Kyma moves to cushion her head in her lap. His movements are jerky, almost rough and he feels like no time passes at all before he spills, breath coming in short pants against Helena’s skin.

“Exalted,” the girls sigh, draping themselves over his spent form. Gently, they lay kisses against his skin, raking their nails slowly along the panes of his chest. He kisses the crown of their head in response.

“I’ll not leave you again for so long,” he finds himself saying, unsure whether it’s for their sake or his own.

 

When Damen recovers himself, he finds Nikandros waiting for him by the window, arms crossed behind his back.

“This is not how I envisioned the end of the war,” says Nikandros.

From the window, Damen can see the expense of grey stones and brown roofs, the endless rows of buildings. He sees the edge of the city and beyond shallow hills of green. He almost glimpses freedom in the distance if only his legs could carry him fast enough.

“How did we come here?” says Damen.   

Nikandros exhales at length. “Missteps that birthed calamity.”

“No, tell me,” Damen says and he catches Nikandros’ forearm. His friend turns to look at him.

Damen has to force the words out. “Things are blurry. I- I can’t remember. How did we come here? Tell me everything.”

“What do you remember?”

Damen remembers Marlas. He remembers the weight of his sword against August’s neck. He remembers the agony of Auguste’s sword through his side.

He raises a hand to his scar. “I fought Auguste. I stroke him down but I-”

Damen pauses, the phantom taste of mud bitter on his tongue.

“You fell,” Nikandros says what Damen cannot. “I could not reach you in time, no-one could. There was a man, I think it was one of Auguste’s captains. He dragged you away, rallying the troops to his side. Their lines held and protected his retreat while he took you away.”

“Still they fought? Even with the leader dead on the ground?” Damen asks, before the heavy lump of understanding settles in his belly. “All because I fell.”

“Yes,” Nikandros says, without mercy.

Damen takes a moment to control his breathing. “Then what?”

“Old King Aleron himself took the field. He cleaved through an entire battalion to reach his son’s corpse. It was—” Nikandros trails off, shaking his head. “It was like madness. We were almost overrun when an arrow found Aleron’s throat.”

“An expert shot,” says Damen.

“It certainly bought us some time. The Veretian army crumbled without a leader. You know how our men thrive when the enemy loses discipline. I thought we would be victorious, but then the King’s brother came,” Nikandros says. “Wave after wave they came, those royals. Wave after wave, it felt like fighting against the sea.”

There’s bitterness in Nikandros’ tone and Damen knows not to try and comfort him. There’s no honor in an easy victory, but there’s nothing worse than defeat.

“The Regent asked for parley, knowing that your father would not refuse,” Nikandros swallows, suddenly hesitating. His voice changes, taking on a subdued tone, as he relives through the negotiations, the Regent’s feat at catching his father’s off-guard with threats and unthinkable demands. 

“He threatened to kill you, to let you bleed to death and bury you in Veretian mud, never to be found,” Nikandros says. “A prince for a prince, that slimy bastard said. Let you go or watch you die. Your Father had no choice, Damianos.”

Damen is silent for a long time. There’s a child playing with a small dog in the streets. It’s a runt, nothing like the hounds his father keeps, but its bark is fierce as he runs after the little girl. Damen watches them until his thoughts are clear and he can trust his voice.

“You came with me.”

“Have I not always been at your side?” Nikandros says. “I could not keep you safe on the battlefield and now I find that I cannot keep you safe in this blasted city. Forgive me, Exalted. I-”

“It is good that you came,” Damen interrupts and he can bear it no longer. The words spill out, unbidden. He tells Nikandros of Paschal and his sore wound, describes the sick and the dying. He speaks of the long hours and longer nights, left alone to think and despair. He tells Nikandros of his aborted escape plan, twisting the truth to avoid Nikandros’ outrage at threats and injuries and insults to a prince of Akielos. He describes the somber lords of the Veretian courts, dressed in blacks and tittering behind his back. He talks of the Prince and his uncle, one too young and the other too amiable. 

When Damen runs out of words and Nikandros out of counsel, Damen is exhausted. They sit and eat, fruits and nuts. They drink wine that is too bitter and laugh too loud, unable to find peace in each other, overwhelmed by their circumstances. Instead, Damen seeks out his slaves one more time. He savors it, feeling like a sailor ready to take the sea and committing every detail to memory. Helena and Kyma kiss his hands when he leaves hurriedly without bothering to redo the endless laces at his throat and wrists for fear of tumbling them a third time.

Nikandros embraces him at the door.  

“Be careful,” Nikandros says. “You know how the Veretians are. Depraved and slippery. They will try to curry your favor, they’ll act like your friend, but they’ll stab you in the back at the first occasion. The Treaty is but words. In your heart, you know they are our enemies.”

Damen nods against Nikandros’ shoulder. “Keep safe, my friend. I will be with you again soon.”

 

Leyandre is waiting for him outside the villa, leaning against the wall. There’s no impatience on his face, no annoyance at being made to wait, but he seems to allow himself a smirk as he takes in Damen’s loose cuffs and the open collar of his shirt.

“My,” the captain drawls. “Don’t you look relaxed.”

Damen ignores him, gesturing impatiently towards the alley they came from. “Well, lead on.”

Leyandre observes him a moment longer. “This way,” he says, pushing away from the wall and leads him away from the alley into what looks to be the main city road. The street is busy with people, and the familiar sounds of city life are an unexpected comfort. The neighs of horses and laughter of children are the same in any language, Damen realizes.

Leyandre keeps the pace leisurely, allowing Damen to take in the unusual sights of the Veretian city. The houses are well made with dark wood and what looks like white clay to Damen’s eyes. It looks drab compared to the dignified white stone of Ios and somewhat incongruous, as if the mason had not finished his work and left the structure of the edifice bare, for the world to see. As they sink further in the city, clay is slowly replaced by grey stones. Thatched roofs, made thick to endure the northern winter, are replaced by tiles. The beams become carved, some even painted and shiny, revealing the wealth of their owners. There are flowers on the windowsills, bringing flash of colors against the dull browns and grey of the houses.

Distracted by the unusual sights it takes a moment for Damen to realizes that the street has fallen silent around them. The light flow of commoners has stopped and they stare at him, following his slow process through the street. Their eyes linger on his face, on the exposed panes of skin and Damen is suddenly keenly aware of his partial state of undress.

_You have taken much from Vere’s people,_ the Regent had told him.

And here is Damen, strolling through their city, unarmed. He glances sideways at Leyandre, but if the captain notices, he chooses not to act on it.

Damen notices then the ribbons of black cloth that the people wear. Most have tied them around their wrists. Others have wrapped larger swath of black wool around their neck like scarves. Some cover their head with it. It is nothing like the intricate caps the nobles wore, but the simplicity of the gesture reveals the love of Vere’s people for their fallen King and Prince, the depth of their mourning.

Even as he passes them, Damen feels their presence like a nameless monster behind him, always lurking at the edge of his vision. His hand twitch helplessly at his side, where his sword should be.

“Damn you,” a young woman says as he walks by.

Damen stops dead in his tracks, whirling around. The girl cannot be one day older than him and is dressed in a simple dress, partially hidden by a black shawl. She looks like a peasant. Yet, she stands as tall as a queen and meets Damen’s gaze squarely.

_Damn you,_ her voice repeats in his mind.

Leyandre grabs Damen’s elbow and pushes forward. It takes two more curses for Damen to stop wincing, four more to school his features in a blank mask.

_Damn you. Prince-Killer. Death on your house. The young prince will burn Akielos to the ground._

He hears it all and takes it in stride.

_They’ll act like your friend,_ Nikandros said.

The Regent had smiled. _Of course, you must be eager to see them._

He looked at the hostile faces of the crowd. He’s been such a fool.

He feels like they have been walking for hours when they finally walk into Arles’ main square. It is majestic, built to stun. The houses surrounding the square are the richest, four stories high, facades resplendent with carved stones, only overshadowed by the majestic palace that borders one side of the square. At the center of the square, the majestic oak that Damen sees from his chambers’ window stands guardian to the palace’s inner gates. Its branches are thick, spreading across the square like the sun.

They have barely reached the tree when there’s a commotion at the doors and the prince of Vere comes bursting from the palace’s inner gates, flanked by guards, all armed. The crowds part around him, awestruck silence spread around him like a sickness as the prince steps among his subjects. Instead, they gather behind and around Damen, forming a large half-circle.

Laurent takes one look at Damen and his lips curl up in disgust.

“So it’s true,” Laurent breathes. “How dare you?”

Damen blinks. His mind feels sluggish, still caught up in the insults of the townsfolk.   

_I have never been insulted before,_ Damen wants to say. _It was a mistake. I did not mean to burden your people further-_  

But he is too slow for a child’s impatience.

“Seize him,” Laurent says and two of his guards rush to Damen, grabbing his arms.

“You have brought death to my house and now you try to bring abominations to my city?” Laurent snarls. “How dare you lay with your whores?”

This is not what he expected to hear. “I- I don’t-” Damen stutters. “What?”

Laurent laughs. It is an ugly sound, bitter and cynical. On the boy’s beautiful features, it looks even uglier. 

“Have you no knowledge of our culture, barbarian? That you would dare to insult us so.”

Damen remembers studying Vere’s history in his youth. He remembers the droning voices of his tutors and nothing else.

“I thought so,” Laurent sneers. “By all means, let me educate you. Six generations ago, Queen Yseult made the unfortunate choice to marry a rich man, who had little interest in statesmanship and preferred the company of young women, one of which gave him a son. The bastard, Asce, was kept here in Arles in deference of his father’s noble blood of his father and grew proud, ambitious. He tried to kill the Queen’s true-born son. He failed in his attempt but revealed his evil nature. Bastards are abominations.”

“She killed him,” Damen realizes, but even then, he is wrong. Laurent laughs.  

“She killed _all_ of them. Every last single bastard in the city. She hanged them from the battlements to feed the crows. Asce, she hanged from that three,” says Laurent, nodding at the oak tree in the center of the square. “She refused him a noble death, his blood too poisonous to spread under Arles’ foundations.”

_This is madness. Deeds make a man good or evil, not ancestry,_ Damen wants to say, but he hears whispers among the crowds, see them nodding and touching their heads in superstition. He keeps his mouth shut.

“So I ask again: how dare you lay with your whores and risk bringing abominations under my nose?” Laurent says, then considers. “Or do you deny it?”

There’s a challenge in Laurent’s eyes, but Damen knows how he looks, collar loose and cuffs unlaced. He spent the whole morning in the villa. Ten slaves. All women.

“I do not deny it,” Damen says. “But hear me-”

But it’s too late. Any apology that Damen could utter would be lost in the swelling of cries of outrage from the crowd. _Shame,_ he sees them mouth. _Shame,_ he hears clearly from the braver lot. _Shame!_ yell the bravest yet. It spreads like fire among the commoners. Damen sees men ball their fist at their side, the set of their jaws angry and set. One man picks up a rock. 

Laurent raises a hand and the crows quiets down instantly, like the kites that children play with on the beaches bordering the Ellosean sea, suddenly abandoned by the breeze.   

“Very well, then you must learn your lesson,” Laurent says and he gestures to one of his guards. “Bring me a rope.”

Some animal instinct understands the words before his mind does and he trashes against the men holding him. He manages to shrug free of one captor, but immediately two more soldiers rush forward and grab his arms. He roars, kicking one in the knee, feeling the bone crack under the impact. The man falls, crying in pain, and Damen shifts with him hoping to destabilize the rest of his captors.

It works. They stumble with him; one guard collides in Damen’s side and he sees his opportunity: the pommel of a sheathed sword.

His vision goes black as a weight slams into his temple. He loses a moment to the darkness and when his vision clears, there is a strong arm across his throat and the tip of a blade resting just at the edge of his throbbing wound.

“Healed yet?” Leyandre’s voice says in his ear as he runs the blade along the scar.  

Damen feels his nostrils flare with outrage. He looks at Laurent. 

“You _can’t._ ”

“I will,” says Laurent and when the rope comes, gives orders to his men to loop the length of woven hemp around one of the tree’s higher branches. Then, he examines the noose and nods.

They drag Damen below the tree and the weight of Leyandre’s arm disappears, replaced immediately by the roughness of the rope.

“Lift,” says Laurent as three men gather at the other side of the rope. “Slowly. Don’t break his neck on the first try.”

The guards still hold him as he feels the rope tense, then inch by inch drag him upward. When Damen comes to his toes, they have to release him, unable to follow his inexorable ascent. Damen’s hands fly to the rope, trying to pry the noose loose, but the rope is already too tight around his neck. Abruptly his feet no longer touch the cobblestones of the square.

He feels every inch of the rope as it tightens and slides against his skin. It sinks into the meat of his neck, squeezing and squeezing until he chokes on empty air. He feels his feet kick below as the lack of air pushes past the uncomfortable, past his known limits into terror. Panic sets in, fingers raking the rope. There’s fire creeping in his lungs. He must breathe- He must-

“Let him down.”

He hears Laurent from very far away and suddenly he can feel the earth again under his feet as the pressure against his neck alleviates. Blindly, he tugs at the rope, tugs and tugs until a sliver of air filters past his lips and he breathes, breathes-

“Again.”

_No,_ Damen wants to yell but the rope grows tight around his throat again. The tip of his boots scrap across the stones.

It feels worse, somehow, as the rope cuts his air inflow, the bright burning pain flaring his lungs. The sight of Laurent below him is distorted by the creeping blackness at the edge of his eyes, but Damen forces himself to look.

Damen misjudged him. He thought him a child, a pretty face and a bad temper, but now he sees the steel in his spine and the sharpness of his resolve. Damen was waging wars in the south when he was fourteen. And now, on the cusp of fourteen, the crown prince of Vere would kill him.

The rope abruptly loses its tension and Damen crumples like a doll on the cobblestones. It’s instinct rather than conscious thought that brings his fingers to his neck, fighting the noose until it loosens. The first draw of breath burns down his abused throat. Still, he takes a second, a third breath. He takes a thousand before his heart no longer threatens to burst. 

When he looks up, the Regent is walking up to his nephew, face tight in anger.

“You come too late, Uncle,” says Laurent. “I was teaching the prince-killer the finer points of Vere’s history and morals. I believe we’ve made some progress.”

“Laurent-” the Regent chides.

“I have not forgotten,” says Laurent and turns back to Damen.   

“I was rude yesterday and did not greet you in a manner suiting the noble house of my father. Allow me to correct my behavior,” Laurent recites, his voice the epitome of politeness. He gives Damen a short and elegant bow, but when he straightens, no amount of courtly polish can hide the hatred and deadly resolve blazing in Laurent’s eyes.   

“Welcome to Vere.”


	3. The Boy

Leyandre follows silently as Damen stumbles towards his chambers. He passes guards and servants without seeing them, refusing to acknowledge their heavy stares, their judgment. He still feels the rope around his neck, squeezing the air out of his lungs. He wraps a hand around his throat.

 _Nothing there,_ Damen tells himself as blood pulses under his palm. His vision blurs and he takes a moment to orientate himself, leaning against the wall.

 _Was it left?_ Damen wonders as the corridors shift and dance across his eyes. Marbles arches, black and white stones everywhere. He forces himself to focus and recognizes one of the paintings. _No, right. Right._

He pushes forward, stumbling almost drunkenly. Time stretches. He focuses on his feet, counting each step under his breath. Anything to distract him from the pounding pain.

Here. There’s the door to his chamber. The crack of wood as he slams the door behind him echoes like thunder. He sways. Every wall of the room seems suddenly closer, crawling towards him like snakes. He almost retches, fighting against the bile, and drags himself to the bed. The sheet is cool against his cheek. Damen blinks, once, twice, and passes out.

 

He wakes up choking.

He jerks in his bed, fighting to take a breath. Plain blooms bright and hot across his throat, subtler and aching in his belly. Damen takes a second to find his balance, wiping drool off his chin. He lurches to the window. The morning sun has barely risen over the city, bathing the thatched roofs in golden brown. It’s early, yet Damen hears the faint rumble of life. He can imagine the bakers, hard at work while their ovens are hot, merchants who already arrange their wares for a day’s worth of sales, guards making slow rounds in the empty streets, wishing for their beds in the cold early light. Drowned among the sounds of human activity, he hears the soft calls of birds and the breeze, rustling between the trees. The large oak still overlooks the quiet square, standing proud and serene, like an innocent bystander to the events that unfolded the previous day rather than an active participant.  

 _Just a tree,_ Damen thinks but still he feels the strange momentum of his body, swinging above its roots. He looks transfixed at the oak, the graceful branches arched across the square. It takes a moment for Damen to realize that the leaves of the oak are still in the morning light, a moment longer still to understand that the low, wheezing sound is not the breeze but comes from his throat. Saliva gathers in his mouth, heavy on his swollen tongue, but when he tries to swallow, he just coughs until his knuckles are white where they clutch the windowsill.

Years of discipline and training make him control his breathing. He wipes his mouth against his sleeve, willing the pain away. It succeeds for the most part. The pain from the wound at his stomach barely registers now that his throat feels like it’s torn in two.

One of the guard stumbles after him when Damen leaves his chambers, but makes no attempt to stop him and simply follows him silently as Damen makes his way down the corridors. The sickroom is quiet, the patients still asleep in the early hours of the morning, but Paschal is already working at his desk. He looks up when Damen enters. The surprised look lasts but for a moment before the physician rushes to Damen’s side.

 _I can’t breathe,_ Damen tries to say, but the words crumble in his throat. All that comes out is a faint wheeze. He tries again, and again, but the words are distorted, barely understandable. Paschal’s hand lands heavy on his shoulders. He must read something on Damen’s faint because his voice takes on a kind tone.

“Your body suffered a great trauma, Lord,” Paschal says. “Give it time to right itself.”

The medicinal salve Paschal lathers on his throat is different from the one he used on his belly. It feels cold against his skin, almost painful, but soon the cold sensation becomes soothing and the muscles of his throat unravel, allowing him to breathe with bearable pain.

“With your permission,” Paschal says and gestures towards Damen’s stomach.

Damen concentrates on breathing while Paschal redresses his stab wound. There’s a telltale pinched look on the physician’s face.

 _Do not exert yourself_ , Paschal had warned him.

Clearly, Damen did not account for the Prince of Vere.  

“This would help you relax, Lord,” Paschal says. In his hand, there is a small open vial of clear liquid. Even from that distance, Damen can smell the sharp scent of alcohol and herbs.

Damen grunts and pushes Paschal’s hand away. He cannot afford to seek comfort. He has been too naïve already. Still, Damen knows his body and knows pain. He can barely think over the shortness of his breath, the pounding in his head. He must rest before the next onslaught, rest before it is too late. He turns his back to the physician and curls up on the bed, carefully breathing in and out until he dozes off.

 

The room is bright with the afternoon sun when Damen blinks awake. Eliante, Paschal’s young friend is sitting in the bed next to his, cover tight over his legs. He looks pale but not scared when Damen turns towards him. His open face contrasts sharply with their first encounter. There are no tears track running across his face today, his features are relaxed and elegant. He stares at Damen with unabashed curiosity.

“I heard the Prince hanged you,” the boy says.     

 _He most certainly tried,_ Damen does not say, keeping the words tightly leashed in his throat. Instead, he stands, stretching his muscles carefully. The scar at his belly shifts with him, faintly painful. He finds a pitcher next to the bed and pours some water. He drinks slowly, forcing each gulp down his abused throat. It burns like fire.

“He didn’t do a very good job at it, did he?” Damen tries to say, but his voice breaks on the second word and the sentence is lost. His fingers clench around the glass and he drinks more.

“The servants talk about nothing else,” Eliante says. “Apparently no-one was sure whether you lived. There’s a wager about it.” 

Damen raises an eyebrow and the boy blushes. He is even lovelier up close. His eyes are striking: bright green with long, curled eyelashes. 

“I didn’t bet,” the boy stutters, hiding his face. “My master always told me gambling is for the weak.”

His master?

Damen prepares the words carefully in his mouth. “Are you a servant?” he asks slowly. His voice is raspy. Weak.

“I was part of the King’s household before-” the boy hesitates, “before the war.”

Damen looks at the boy. His features are so striking that it distracted him of the rough cut of his clothes, the apparent coarseness of the cloth. Around him, the wealth of the chambers is unmistakable. Damen knows the silkiness of the linens, the quality of the drugs. The injured soldiers in the other beds are all highborn, visited by Lords and Ladies wearing expensive jewels on their fingers. The boy looks out of place and yet, no-one chases him away.

There’s an open casket next to the boy, made of fine wood and carved with care. Damen finds small pawns and dice inside it and when he opens the box further, it spreads into an even board. Two dice, twelve arrows, the setup of the game is familiar.

“Is it tavla?” Damen croaks. He picks up a pawn. It is heavy, well-made. During the war, Damen used to play with rocks and lines drawn in the dirt. This feels luxurious.

The boy shakes his head. “This is jaquet. I can teach you if you like.”

Damen looks at Eliante. The boy seems eager, like a bored child seeing an unexpected opportunity at distraction.

Jaquet, Damen soon learns, is practically identical to the Akielon tavla, although in true Veretian fashion, there are more rules and unnecessary complications. Damen listens attentively as Eliante explains the rules and soon they start rolling dice and moving their pawns across the board.

The boy is competitive. He ponders each move carefully, grinning when he rolls well and smirking when Damen rolls badly. He contemplates Damen’s moves even longer than he contemplates his own. Halfway through the game, Damen realizes that he is going to lose. He underestimated his opponent, relied only on chance and refused to see the danger.

The boy squeals with delight when his final pawn leaves the board.

“No beginner’s luck,” he says. “Do you want a rematch?” 

 _No, there will be no rematch,_ Damen thinks, _because the game is not yet over._

The board has been set without Damen’s control but the game is not over. Damen may take some time to catch up, but he will not forfeit the game. He is aware of it now, no longer a pawn to be tossed around the board and discarded.  

Thoughts swirling in his head, he smiles to the boy and watches as Eliante resets the board eagerly. They play until the sun goes down.

 

He is summoned to court the next day. Servants come early to stuff him into an uncomfortable set of dark clothes, while the Regent’s captain watches over the process with unrelenting attention.

Leyandre leads him through the hallways of the palace silently. There are dozens of questions on Damen’s tongue but not trusting his battered throat, Damen keeps them to himself.

The captain finally stops in front of a set of heavy oak doors and knocks promptly before pushing the doors open, revealing a small study, draped in red and dark brown. Behind a sturdy desk, Damen sees the Regent.

“Damianos,” the Regent says as he lifts his head. “Come, sit.”

A servant appears at Damen’s elbow almost instantly, offering a cup brimming with dark wine, but Damen waves him away, his throat already pulsing in pain at the idea of swallowing anything. Instead, Damen sits and waits.

“Laurent is due to face the council in a moment,” the Regent explains. “As the Regent, I am to select his punishment. I thought you should be present as you suffered under his- his impulsiveness.”

The Regent looks at him expectantly. Damen stares back. After a moment, the Regent clears his throat.

“The actions of my nephew-” the Regent hesitates again. “Auguste was an exemplary man and meant the world to Laurent. Where some siblings come to resent each other, there was only the deepest love between my nephews. To have his brother’s killer roaming the streets of Arles is an unforgivable outrage in his eyes,” the Regent says. “Laurent is too young and selfish to honor his station, but you and I are reasonable men. We only want the best for our realms and their citizens.”

Damen clears his throat, hoping his voice does not betray him. 

“I believe in what my father is trying to achieve through this treaty,” Damen says, surprising himself at how easily the lie flows on his tongue. “I am his instrument in reaching this goal.”

“Laurent will not be so foolish as to seek you out publicly a second time, but make no mistake. He has not forgiven. He has not forgotten.”

The Regent’s warning sounds empty to Damen’s ears. He knows that already. There was no room for mercy in Laurent’s eyes.

“I will strive to shield you from his wrath, for your sake, and his,” the Regent says. “Such a sweet child, it would be a pity if he were to be consumed by rage.”

Damen bows his head. “I thank you.”

The Regent nods, satisfied, and reaches within his jacket.

“A letter came for you,” he says and Damen’s world narrows to the small battered letter in the Regent’s hand.  

“Of course, you are welcome to answer it and to conduct any correspondence you desire. My Captain will relay any letters you wish to send to our messengers.”

Damen makes a conscious effort not clutch the letter to his chest as the Regent hands it to him.

The Regent squeezes Damen’s wrist and gives him a small smile. “I am your ally in this.”

 

The council is already gathered when Damen follows the Regent into the audience room. There are eight men and five women, all old and dressed in expensive-looking but austere black clothes, sitting silently on wooden stools. The apparent simplicity of their seating arrangement is negated by the grandeur of the room. Behind them, high windows allow the sun to bathe the room in a warm glow. The light reflects on the wall tapestries, making them shine as if they were encrusted with gold and rubies. Among the vibrant reds and yellows, the eight figures of black are threatening, like shadows refusing to be cast away by the light of day, their features obscured in the backlight.

Laurent is waiting in the middle of the room, facing the council. He stands straight and proud, but his hands, clenched tight behind his back, betray his nervousness. The Regent makes his way to his nephew’s right, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder and motions to Damen to stand at his nephew’s left. Laurent keeps himself very still, but his eyes widen slightly as he registers Damen’s presence.

 _He didn’t know I was summoned_ , Damen realizes. Over the boy’s head, Damen looks at the Regent. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and a thick neck. Between his uncle and Damen’s own bulk, Laurent looks frail, his body still showing the softness of childhood displayed in sharp contrast. Damen forces himself to think as his gaze moves between uncle and nephew, between tense shoulders and an easy, assured stance.

_He will think I have demanded retribution. He will think that this trial is my doing, that I meant to bring him before his own law._

His muscles clench painfully, crushing a curse in his throat before they can be spoken.

It’s too late. The Regent is oblivious as he greets the council.

“Council, you are here to judge the actions of the Crown Prince and to advise me, as Regent of his realm, on how to punish him,” the Regent says. His words sound loud and true, nothing like Damen’s mauled voice.

Laurent’s shoulders grow even tenser under the grasp of his uncle’s hand. It’s too late to rectify, but Damen cannot fuel this fire, cannot give ammunitions to Laurent’s hatred. He must protect himself. No-one else will.

“My nephew has humiliated our guest publicly,” the Regent says. “His actions put the fragile truce between Vere and Akielos in jeopardy. For this, he must be punished.”

Damen sees the shadowed bodies of the council members shift back and forth as they trade whispered words. They will deliver their advice, punishment for Laurent, excuses for Damen, the royal guest. Damen looks at the Regent and forces himself to think.

_I am your ally in this._

A council. Thirteen black pawns in the background. The Prince, the King, and Damen, the free agent thrown on the board. The one pawn that all will try bend to suit their agenda. It is a game and Damen has no choice but to play. Chance will not grant him victory, and so Damen makes a choice and swallows his pride.

He turns to Laurent.

“With my ignorance, I have insulted you deeply,” he says, working around each word carefully. His voice is battered, a painful rasp, but the words echo in the room. No-one thought he would speak and the surprise makes them listen.

“Allow me to apologize,” Damen says and he goes down to one knee, bowing his head. He remembers how Laurent bowed before him the day before, forced by his uncle’s presence when he probably wished nothing more than to tighten the rope a little longer until Damen swallowed his tongue.

Silence spreads in the hall. When Damen dares to raise his head, Laurent is livid. Behind him, the Regent’s eyebrows are scrunched in thought. Damen presses his advantage.

“To honor the treaty between our countries, I wish to learn more about your culture.” Damen croaks, “and seek your guidance.”

Damen can almost see the wheel turn in the boy’s mind, looking for an insult, caught off his guard. He carefully keeps his eyes on Laurent, avoiding the Regent’s gaze.

“My guidance?” Laurent scoffs.

“I did not understand how my actions could be interpreted,” Damen says, each word more painful than the last. “I now recognize my lack of knowledge.”

“Your lack of knowledge,” Laurent laughs, the sound of it even crueler than the fall of a whip. “If you wish to learn, then perhaps you should share my lessons.”

The idea is ludicrous and the sudden tension in the room makes it even plainer. Damen is a grown man, not some green boy in need of education. That Laurent would suggest this is a petty insult, a child’s taunt.

And yet.

“If you think it best,” Damen says.

The featureless shadows of the council ripple with titters and suppressed gasps, but it does not distract Damen enough to miss the flush flood Laurent’s cheeks. Damen squares his jaw and meets his gaze.

 _You cannot humiliate me further,_ Damen wants to tell the boy. Damen may have lost his status and power, but he will not let go of the last crumbs of his agency.

“It is fair,” a deep voice in the council says. “It is an opportunity for Akielos to learn of our culture and for our prince to learn diplomacy.”

A wave of approving mutters sweeps through the council. Laurent recoils, eyes wide.

“Uncle,” Laurent hisses.

Whispers grow louder between the member of the council, hinting at reproach.

“The Prince of Akielos has provided an elegant solution to the incident”, a new voice says, although Damen cannot distinguish from which council member it emanates. “But the decision falls to you, Regent. Do you agree?”

There’s a pause and for the first time, Damen sees hesitation in the Regent’s composure. Refusing would be going against the council’s consensus. Accepting, however, would incur the wrath of his nephew and Damen has seen first hand how bright it can burn.

Damen barely holds back a smirk. He can do this. He might never have had to care for court intrigue before, but he is a good strategist. His wits have not left him even if the field of battle has changed.

“I think it fair,” the Regent finally says. “So that the bonds between our countries can grow.”

The current of tension releases and the members of the Council breathes out as a single being.

“Then let it be done.”

 

The Regent insists on escorting them as they leave the audience chamber. It seems that Damen is to begin his studies immediately, although he suspects the urgency is mostly due to the Prince of Vere, who looks ready to bolt at the first opportunity.

Damen walks stiffly behind the prince as they pass halls and antechambers he has never seen before. The Regent keeps a cordial, meaningless stream of conversation as they walk. Damen lets him talk and keeps his eyes on the Laurent’s neck, watching as his muscles lock and hold, as his face becomes eerily blank while Leyandre brings up the rear of their strange party, silent and unobtrusive.

The Regent leads them to a beautiful room with high ceilings and windows so large they almost pan the entire width and height of its southern wall. The walls are white and unadorned but for the ubiquitous moldings of the plaster. Devoid of fripperies and decorations, the room seems grander, closer to Akielon standards of beauty. Damen finds himself considering the elegant architecture of the room with unexpected pleasure. The room even lacks the sometimes cold and impersonal characters of Akielon buildings. Instead, it feels intimate and comfortable. A single table stands in the center of the room on a dark blue rug and with four chair, draped with a matching blue velvet. Two man-high bookcases stand opposite the windows, brimming with books and trinkets. It’s not enough to be a library. Still, it could be considered the start of a careful collection. The spines of the books are cracked, the corners of the pages frayed and bent, betraying too much attention by their owner rather than a lack of care. Between the bookcases, two armchairs flank a low table, already laden with books and candles.

This is not a public area for studies. This is private. The armchairs are worn, and the blue velvet of the chairs has grown thin and pale with use. Small trinkets reveal personal touches. Damen sees a small carved horse on one of the bookshelf, caught expertly in a mad gallop. Next to it, there is a rougher version, lumpy and amorphous, a child’s attempt at replicating their favorite toy. Someone has left an open book on the table, next to a small wooden case full of writing materials. Ink and fine pens. Thin papers, sheets and sheets of it. Some are blank, others are bursting with a fine, tight handwriting.

This is a room fit for a king. Or his kin.

Laurent has turned away from Damen, running his hand slightly along the back of a chair. He looks bored, unbothered. The act is almost perfect but for the tense set of his jaw.

This is Laurent’s refuge, loved and worn with use, and here is Damen, stomping through it.

Damen turns to the Regent and can only stare, uncomprehending.

In Akielos, there are standard punishments for misbehavior. Guard duty, night duty, forced labor and pecuniary fines are all common depending on the severity of the offense. The punishments for lords are usually worse, and more public. Had Laurent been a high-ranking citizen of Akielos, he would have been lashed under the high noon sun.

But this-

Damen walking through Laurent’s private space, uninvited and undesired. Laurent forced to share time and space together with his enemy in a mock pretense of cordiality and friendship.

This is _personal._

The Regent could have led them to any other room. Instead, he chose to expose a part of his nephew’s life.

 _These twin tragedies taught me that anything is possible,_ Damen remembers. There was deep love between Auguste and Laurent, but was there such love between Aleron and his brother? An arrow and Damen’s sword propelled a second-son to the highest office of Vere.

Damen balls his fists.

“It warms my heart to see you strive towards reconciliation,” the Regent says, delivering the final blow. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Laurent takes a seat in silence and carefully organizes his papers into a neat pile as his uncle exchanges a few soft-spoken words with his captain and leaves the room.

 _I tried,_ Damen almost says. _I’m sorry._

The thought surprises him. He is sorry. Despite the bruises around his neck and his broken voice. He is sorry even if Laurent does not deserve it.

He goes to the window instead, giving Laurent time to gather his papers and hide his secrets. The windows overlook quiet gardens, far from the humbug of the central square. Among the rows of flowers, Damen spots a few apple trees and bushes full with berries.

He retrieves his father’s letter from his jacket. It’s only a few sentences long despite the gravity of the situation, but then, his Father has always been a man of few words, always privileging action. Although the form reflects the character of his father, the content is nothing like Damen expects.

 _Peace, diplomacy,_ Damen reads. No words on war, troops and retaliation. His father writes about patience.

The orchards are heavy with fruit. Damen wonders if he will see them fall and rot on the ground as he turns back and silently takes a seat facing Laurent.

 

His days become etched in routine. There are no new summons to court and no more excursions outside the palace gates. The angry words of the citizens of Arles become an unpleasant rumble in Damen’s memory as the bruises around his neck fade into green and yellow then disappear. His throat heals and his voice is returned to him.

Damen is only left alone in his chambers during the evening hours. Free from the watchful gaze of his escort, Damen wastes no time. He goes through drills like a boy learning army discipline for the first time. His body needs to recover its strength and he swings the broken track of the curtains like a sword until his side is throbbing and his body covered in sweat. The red of his walls becomes faint, almost chafed, whether he swings, swings, and swings again.

He is always exhausted when servants bring him his evening supper and he finds no real strength to complain even if the soup has gone cold or the meat is too raw for his taste. He wolfs it down regardless, thankful that the food is rich and plenty. A thick soup to start, a main dish always drowning in cream and potatoes, and desserts like Damen has never tasted. So rich in butter the smell turns his stomach, and yet, on his tongue, the taste is heavenly. The food suits his recovering body, and with each passing day, he feels strength return to his abused muscles.

The only witness to his progress is Paschal. Like clockwork, he goes to find the physician in the early hours when the palace’s corridors are only frequented by servants and sits dutifully as the physician changes his bandages. The stab wound is healing. The angry red of the wound slowly fades into a soft pink as new skin emerges. After a week, Paschal forgoes the thick linens of the usual bandages and wraps Damen’s torso in a thinner, less itchy cloth.

Sometimes, the boy with the tavla board is there in the mornings, either staring sullenly at a wall or smiling openly at Damen. There’s no clear pattern to his moods and Damen soon learns not to insist if the boy fails to acknowledge him. On good days, Eliante’s laughter rings like bells as Damen suggests a game of tavla.

“It’s called jaquet!” the boy usually says, eyes scrunching in delight as he sets the board with febrile fingers.

Damen has never shied away from companionship. Friends, women, slaves to drink and laugh and fuck, he was rarely alone. Now isolated in this foreign land, he hoards Eliante’s smiles and easy company like a starving man. These early morning interludes where they play and laugh together could almost be peaceful if Damen did not have to deal with the Regent’s captain. Outside of his chambers, Leyandre becomes his constant shadow. From the moment Damen goes to Paschal until he takes his leave in the evening, Leyandre escorts him through the palace like a well-trained dog.

No, not like a dog. The captain is always courteous and polite. Damen feels like a beautiful girl courted by a persistent lord, like a potential pet pursued by some rich man. Damen knows all about the pets in Vere and their debauchery even if they are kept well hidden from his gaze. To feel like them, to lack freedom, Damen can barely stand it. After a few days, Leyandre must decipher something on Damen’s face because he dares to make a small courtly bow as Damen disappears in his chambers. The captain must see it like a challenge and keeps pushing the boundaries at every encounter. Once he even takes Damen’s elbow to guide him through a new sets of corridors. Damen manages to avoid punching him in the face with considerable effort.

Patience. Peace. His father’s words are difficult to honor on those nights, but Damen grits his teeth and simply hits the wall harder.

He would be lying if he said his nightly routine of raging against a wall was only meant to recover his strength. It is a welcome escape from the tension accumulated over the day as each afternoon he keeps his promise to the council and joins Laurent for his studies briefly after noon. He usually finds the prince already bent on a book or in discussion with one of his tutors. History, geography, economics, the prince is far from lazy. Damen often finds himself staring. Laurent’s concentration is a thing of beauty. Unfaltering. A little terrifying, like the high noon sun bearing down on your head in the middle of summer. At thirteen, Damen’s attention span was shorted than a sneeze. There was always some mischief or girl to pursue rather than to sit still and read. His father quickly relented and enrolled him in the army rather than suffer Damen’s complaints.

The lessons would wait, Theomedes had said.

But then came the unrest with the Southern lords, then came war up north while the rest of Damen’s lessons never did. They might never come at all, Damen understands now, so he lends half an ear to the slow droning of Laurent’s tutors. He learns some and often realizes that he barely understood the subject when Laurent asks a subtle question.

Laurent may not grow to be a fighter like Auguste, but what a terrifying statesman he shall be. 

As he watches Laurent build up his arsenal of words and knowledge, Damen realizes that he always intended to rule with his fists. He had never much interest in scholarly pursuits, but he never thought himself an idiot. He wonders whether this will still hold true when they are both kings, bound to protect their borders and coming face to face, across an audience room or worse, a battlefield.

Laurent is relentless. There are no friends to interrupt a lesson, no transparent excuses to avoid another afternoon of treaties and politics to find adventure outside the palace gates, no sly glances from a sweetheart at the door to lure him away from his books. The Prince of Vere stays alone, dressed in impeccable if uncomfortable-looking jackets, eyes obscured by his hair as he reads, head bent down on tight writing.

He’s always there when Damen arrives in the early afternoon and shows no signs of fatigue when Damen takes his leave in the evening. Sometimes, Damen tries to linger past sundown and glean some sign of fatigue from Laurent, but he stays pristine, unerringly focused on his work. If there is some silent competition unfolding as Damen tries to hide his yawns, he always loses it. His only satisfaction is to see Leyandre’s face grow more and more bored as he is forced to play guardian to the strange pair. Small pleasures, Damen will take what he can.

Afternoon after afternoon, Damen sits across the table from Laurent and watches as Laurent thoroughly ignores him. Not a word of acknowledgment, not even a nod. As a fly on the wall, Damen could have garnered more interest from the boy. Still, Damen has not forgotten the resolve in the boy’s eyes, the disgusted twist of his mouth as he Damen entered his private study room. It is only dormant.

Damen was never a patient man and his nerves grow more brittle with each passing day. His mind goes to Akielos. The words of his father still resonate in him. Patience. Peace. Both seem out of reach. The Veretians’ actions speak loudly. There are no bonds between Akielos and Vere, only disdain from the Prince while the Regent keeps Damen at a carefully calculated distance. They could him here cloistered in the palace for years while Vere grows strong and Damen grows weak.

 _The treaty is but words_ , Nikandros had said. With each new day, Damen understands the depth of his friend’s insight.

Still, Damen’s body still heals. It’s too early to be enterprising.

Damen was never lazy but stripped from his duties and command, his hands are empty and his mind brimming with frustration. As he sits feet away from the studious Prince of Vere, he finds a temporary solution in front of his eyes. He grabs a book and, almost despite himself, Damen finds himself engrossed. In Akielos, knowledge is transmitted in a perfunctory manner. Reports, maps, accounts, Damen has read them all and accepted boredom as an inevitable side effect. Akielon art is a living entity. There’s beauty in the oral tales of old transmitted through generations, in the slow chanting of poems and the complex rhythms of songs. Vere lacks the oral traditions of Akielons, but in their literature, Damen finds beauty, humor and vibrant life that resonate in him like Sappho’s soft voice as she spins tales of valor.

Even as he reads accounts of the Vere’s royal lineage, he is thoroughly entertained by the outrageous intrigue of the Court. It reads like a farce but Damen recognizes pockets of truth and deeply engrained cultural traits that make little sense to Damen’s view of the world.

He’s halfway through the very detailed description of the legislative legacy of past kings when he snorts in amusement.

“That can’t be true.” 

Damen realizes that he has spoken out loud a second before Laurent, who raises his head slowly, blinking as if he were coming awake.

Damen points to his book. “They say it is unlawful for a man to have any solid food on his name day.”

Damen half-expects to be ignored, but Laurent uncoils in his chair, tension shifting in his limbs.

“Three generations ago, the King’s young heir died on his name day,” Laurent says. “I believe the Prince asked for a pie and choked on an uncooked piece of carrot.”

From anyone else’s mouth, Damen would have thought it a joke and laughed, but this is Laurent. Damen hesitates.  

“Truly?”

“Truly.” Laurent does not even blink. “The King only wished that his subjects would never experience the same pain and so the new law was made.”

 _This is ridiculous,_ Damen thinks, but instead he tries for diplomacy.  “It seems a bit excessive.”

“Is it?” Laurent says, voice sharper than a knife. “I find that one may go great length for the sake of grief.”

Any thought of laughter dies out as a cold wave of realization settles deep into his belly. Laurent leans back against his chair and arranges his growing limbs with effortless grace, revealing the strict lines of his black jacket. The battle of Marlas feels like a distant memory to Damen, but to Laurent, it must feel like his brother died yesterday.

“Forgive me,” Damen says.

“Don’t apologize. I am glad to see you so entertained,” Laurent says, pausing for an instant. “You look healthier. The bruises around your neck are gone.”

Damen knows this, but he sees now the striking contrast with Laurent. The boy’s features are drawn, dark shadows etched deeply under his eyes. The high collar of his jack accentuates the gauntness of his cheeks.

Damen heals, but Laurent’s grief and rage are etched deep into his skin while Auguste rots in the ground.

“The physicians in Vere are most capable,” Damen says.

“Yes,” Laurent says and finally turns back to his books.

Damen curses softly as he watches Laurent excuse himself a few minutes later. He recognizes the look in Laurent’s face. Steel and hatred. Damen’s thoughtlessness might have reignited a fire needlessly.

                                                                                                            

Laurent does not keep in suspense for long. As Damen takes his leave the next evening to return to his chambers, Leyandre is nowhere to be found. Damen hesitates, but Laurent does not acknowledge him, neither do the guards stationed at the door as Damen leaves. It feels strange to navigate the halls and corridors alone and Damen walks slowly, keeping a cautious distance from the rushing servants and the distracted citizens. He’s halfway to his room when he notices their shadows, huddled behind the edge of a wall. He deciphers four, maybe five distinct shapes in the flickering torchlight. His ears perk with the unnatural silence of men trying to muffle their breathing.

Damen rolls his shoulders in preparation and brushes his fingers against the wound at his belly. Almost healed, but still sore. Any blow there would not incapacitate him, but slow him down. He can take no chances. 

He breathes out slowly.

“I’m ready when you are, boys.”

A beat of silence, then four men emerge out of the shadows, weapons already drawn. Two of them bear one-handed sword, the other two short daggers. It’s clever, allowing them to navigate a fight in close quarters or at a longer range. They spread out in a semicircle around Damen. That too would be clever if it was not so revealing. As they move, Damen can see their hesitation. This is not a group of soldiers who know how to fight together, who have trained and bled together. This is a band of thugs, hastily thrown together, without a clear leader. Damen knows what to do as his mind narrows to a single point.

He pounces. In two lunges, he reaches the first man and moves past his guard. The man’s eyes grow wide as Damen grabs his wrist with one hand and slams his other fist on the man’s elbow. The joint gives a satisfying crack as the thug drops his sword, crying out in pain. In his peripheral vision, he sees the other soldiers react, starting towards him. He uses his momentum to shift his grip on the soldier and he feels the muscles in his shoulder overextend as he lifts him and chucks him at the two soldiers rushing towards him.

The effect is almost comical as one flying man slams against the other two and they all go down in a tangle of limbs and muffled shouts. It gives Damen precious time to retrieve the discarded sword. It’s cheaply made, its balance is slightly off. It’s the best thing Damen has ever held in his hand.

With a roar, he launches himself at the last standing man. It’s over in two strikes. One to slide past the man’s guard, another to slam the pommel of his sword against the thug’s temple. He crumples like a sack of grain.

Behind him, the rest of the soldiers have barely begun to untangle themselves.

“Scram,” Damen snarls and watches as the thugs do exactly that, leaving their unconscious companion behind.

Damen is breathing hard as if he had fought for hours rather than disposed of a handful of underprepared ruffians. He grits his teeth as he registers the slow pulsing pain in his shoulders. A new addition to the list of his injuries.

Slow clapping echoes behind him.

“Impressive,” Leyandre whistles. “Although I believe the princeling may have overestimated his assassins.”

“Shall we go for another round?” Damen growls and he takes a step forward. The sword is heavy in his hand and violence thick on the tip of his tongue. He has not forgotten Leyandre’s heavy boot sinking in the meat of his belly.

Kitten.

Leyandre spreads his hands in front of him. “These are not my orders.”

Not yet, remains unsaid.

Not yet, Damen agrees. Patience. Peace.

He ditches the sword. It clatters next to the unconscious thug.

“You were gone when I left,” Damen says.

“Only to get you flowers,” Leyandre says, producing a fresh swath of peonies from behind his back. He smiles brightly.

Damen stalks off before he can change his mind and decides to wipe that smirk off the bastard’s face.

 

Paschal lets out a pained sigh as he discovers Damen’s swollen shoulder in the morning.

“Look on the bright side, Paschal,” Damen says wryly. “At least your fine work on my belly is untouched.”

Paschal sighs again, longer and louder. “You realize that my workload has doubled since your arrival in Arles.”

“Yes, I do feel bad for you,” Damen drawls.

Paschal cannot quite manage to hide his smile. Damen does not try. It feels strange to smile again and Damen savors the rush of pleasure at this simple interaction while he submits to Paschal’s prodding. After some many mornings spent in the physician’s care, it feels almost like a ritual, affording him temporary peace in the methodical way Paschal lathers the salve on his pink scar and binds his torso.

“I would tell you to be mindful of your shoulder for a few days if I thought you would listen to me,” Paschal says as he finishes his careful examination of the abused muscles.

“Do not waste your breath then,” Damen laughs and hastily puts on his shirt. “Is Eliante here? He trounced me yesterday when we played, I want my revenge.”

Paschal smiles and nods towards the window. The boy has claimed a bed bathed in the sun, and he looks happily at Damen as he makes his way over. 

“Here again, boy?”

“Hello,” the boy says. His gaze is slightly unfocused, pupils blown wide, but his smile is brighter than the sun. “Let’s play!”

He grabs the tavla set with slightly shaky fingers and arranges the board for a new game. Wordlessly, Damen gives Eliante the first move and despite the initial disadvantage, Damen wins easily. Eliante seems barely able to focus, moving his pawns thoughtlessly across the board. If he realizes that he is losing in a rather spectacular fashion, he’s a master at hiding it. His countenance stays bright and open.

Damen waits until Paschal is busy with another patient before speaking.

“You were part of the King’s household, were you not?” Damen asks.

“Yes,” Eliante says almost humming the word as he moves a single pawn further down the board when he clearly should have moved two.  

“You must have encountered the members of his family many times,” Damen says and lets his resolve break after days of feeling the question burn the tip of his tongue. “What can you tell me about the prince?”

Eliante looks up surprised. “The prince? He never speaks to me. He never speaks to any of us.”

Eliante is a servant; this doesn’t mean anything. Damen barely acknowledges slaves and servants in Ios.

“Then what kind of person is he?” Damen prods carefully. He knows if he cannot keep this conversation long, Paschal is never far away from them and Damen has no doubt that he monitors their interactions carefully.

“They say he is a scholar. Always with his books. Or his horse. They say he loves to ride.”

 _Riding_ , Damen notes carefully and makes a move on the board. He’s lucky, he rolled two sixes.  

“He must have many admirers and friends,” Damen says.  

Eliante shakes his head. “I only ever saw him with his brother.”

_Auguste._

“What about friends?” Damen asks, forcing his voice to stay light.

“I don’t think so. There was only his brother,” says Eliante. “But now his brother is dead.”

He says it as if he were talking about the weather. There’s no judgment in his tone, no underlying layer of emotion. Damen suddenly wonders if Eliante realizes that Damen is the man who killed Auguste and robbed his little brother of his precious companion.   

“He’s often with my master now,” Eliante adds and Damen’s train of thoughts stops abruptly. “The prince never used to spend so much time with his uncle before. I wish things could go back as they were before the war. I have to wait until he is gone now before I can attend my master. Sometimes I wait for a long time.”

Damen licks his lips and takes a few breaths to navigate the unexpected turn of the conversation.

“You are ill,” he finally says. “Surely Laurent’s uncle would not force you work even as you are now?”

“Oh no, my master is kind,” Eliante says and his voice bleeds honesty and unaltered devotion. “He loves me. See what he has gifted to me.”

Eliante fumbles with the laces of his right sleeve and extends his right forearm to Damen.

“See,” the boy repeats.  

Damen parts the undone laces carefully. Under the sleeve coiled tightly around the boy’s forearm is a band of white gold. It extends from his elbow to his wrist in narrow spirals, almost like a piece of armor that Damen could have worn during training, but the metal seems weak, built only for ornamentation rather than protection. The heavy jewel looks like a snake with gems in place of scales and two bright emeralds, glowing like eyes, nestled in the dip of his wrist. It could be beautiful around the boy’s arm, complementing his milky skin, if it was not so tight. The metal digs in his flesh, leaving the skin red and chafed. It looks painful, almost grotesque, like a piece of meat tied too tight.  

“What-” Damen stutters. He looks to Eliante’s face, searching for signs for pain, but the boy is still smiling at him, eyes slightly glazed.  

“What are you doing?”

Damen takes a hasty step back as Paschal steps between him and the boy, hiding him from view.     

“It’s time for you to leave, Lord,” Paschal says, voice tight. “Guards!”

Damen takes another step back, raising his hands in a non-threatening gesture. He hears the door open behind and the clangs of an armored man rushing towards him, but Damen keeps his gaze steady on Paschal. He looked older in this light, mouth set in an unforgiving line. 

“Your wounds are almost healed,” Paschal adds. “You need not come back tomorrow.”

As the guard leads him away, Damen glances over his shoulder and wonders what he stumbled upon as he sees Paschal painstakingly laces up Eliante’s open sleeve.

 

His concentration is blown for the rest of the day. Afternoon comes and he finds himself sitting feet away from Laurent, mind stuck in an unending loop.

_Books and horses._

_Oh no, my master is kind._

Master Marthin is teaching today. He is even older than the average tutor Laurent often surrounds himself with, and his voice drones on and on in the empty room. The subject is battle strategies and Damen watches as Laurent listens to each word, each comment by the master, and slowly digests them.

_He’s often with my master now._

There’s a book in Damen’s lap but he could not even remember the title. Instead, he is absorbed by the faint frown on Laurent’s face.

Master Marthin is lecturing the Prince on a foregone battle lost by a Vaskian empress. This is a battle that Damen has studied in the past and he listens carefully. There was once a Patran lord, who lived close to the mountain range separating Vere and Patras. Ambitious, the lord quietly extended his reach onto Vaskian lands, chasing landowners off their fields and enslaving proud daughters. The land had little value, just enough to satisfy the Lord’s ego but the Vaskian empress caught wind of the foreign Lord’s intrusion on her land. She was even prouder than him and sent a battalion to fend off the invasion. Although she had the power of an entire nation behind her, she suffered a humiliating defeat.

Master Marthin deploys a large battle map and Damen almost rises to catch a better glimpse of it. The tutor describes the Queen’s strategy with painful attention. Head count of soldiers and horses, inventory of supply wagons, reserves of food and livestock are all listed in painful detail. The master argues that the Queen’s defeat was due to her misunderstanding of the Patran Lord’s army. She thought her cavalry could crush Patran archers without challenge.

“Strategy is everything when it comes to warfare,” the tutor concludes as Laurent nods dutifully. “Her misunderstanding of her factions’ strengths led to her defeat.”

Damen snorts. “That’s nonsense.”

The brunt of Laurent’s attention shifts to him in an instant. It feels like a wave crashing into him, stronger than he expected, and pushing him backwards until his feet find better footing in the shifting sand.

Master Marthin steps away hurriedly as Damen fights against his better instincts and comes closer to lean above the map. Up close, it is even more beautiful than he imagined. The vellum is buttery, nothing like the pockmarked paper Akielons often use. The relief of the terrain, the positions of the opposing armies, all is drawn in sharp contrast and colors. With a finger, he follows the lines of trees, the forks in the river, the edge of the mountain range.

“The Queen’s strategy was sound,” Damen says as he counts the groups of Vaskian horsemen against the rows of archers. “Under perfect circumstances, her cavalry could have crushed the archers.”

Laurent remains still as Damen taps his fingers against each row of archers. “She would have lost half of her riders, maybe more, but it is not an uncommon choice among warmakers.”

“Still, she lost,” Laurent says.

“Yes, but her strategy is not to blame. See how close the battlefield is to the mountain,” Damen points out. “The previous winter had been unusually harsh. Snow was still melting and floods were common in the early spring. That field was soaked.”

Laurent leans forward and the world seems to narrow as the prince’s gaze follows Damen’s fingers on the vellum.

“She remembered the field dry and battle-ready,” Damen explains. “Under those circumstances, her cavalry would have been able to lead the charge. Instead-”

“Instead, the horses were slowed down by the mud,” Laurent finishes for him. “Easy pickings for the archers.”

“Yes,” says Damen, unexpectedly pleased. “She was impatient and did not scout the battlefield properly. She left room for sheer chance. Planning, more than strategy, is everything.”

“What do you think, Marthin?” Laurent asks and the old tutor bows hurriedly over the map. It’s only a distraction. Damen sees the moment where Laurent finds no fault in his argument. A look of discomfort, like a child biting a lemon, twists his mouth. It’s there for an instant, enough for Damen to marvel at it, before it is beaten out of existence by the prince’s will. Still, he waits as the tutor reconsiders hurriedly the battle plan.

“Yes,” Marthin says. “Under those circumstances-”

The tutor’s quivering voice trails off and Damen forces himself to meet Laurent’s gaze head on.

“Perhaps it is you I should employ instead of Marthin,” Laurent says, the drawl in his voice like an insult. “Put you to good use.”

Damen laughs.

Patience. Peace. Those were never for him.

“You are much like the Queen,” Damen says. “I commend your strategy. The location, the timing, the choice of weapons, it might have lacked subtetly, but it was well-thought.”

Laurent’s upper lip curls.

“Still, I lost,” Laurent says again.

“You chose swiftness over preparation,” Damen says. “Numbers are not vital for a successful ambush. The quality of the men you send is everything. A battalion is only as strong as its weakest members. Unity, trust, this is what makes fighting men strong.”

“Yet a strong man would be weaker than a toddler in front of an army,” Laurent sneers.

He can only imagine how his father’s must have stood in front of Vere’s army, while they threatened his heir.

Damen steps closer to Laurent. Enough with the games.

“Twice you’ve tried to kill me and failed,” he says. “I will honor the treaty between our nations. Remember your duty before you ridicule yourself.”

Laurent bares his teeth. “Yes, twice I’ve failed, but we have a saying in Vere: third time’s the charm.”

 

He has gone through half of his nightly set of drills when the servants bring him his supper and he forces himself to ignore the enticing smells as he completes the rounds of stances long ingrained by years of discipline in his father’s armies. Back and forth he sways, swinging the broken curtain track as a wooden sword. 

He is starving when he finally lowers his sword and he works through the vegetable soup and plate of rabbit and potatoes mechanically, barely tasting anything. There is a plate of candied berries, covered in whipped cream. It looks delicious, but Damen puts it to the side. He washes first, massaging his muscles until tension has bled out of them. He tends to the scar on his belly next. The new skin is pink and tender, but it barely aches as Damen twists his torso carefully. Paschal was right. It is almost healed.

The candles have already burned halfway down when Damen sits at the low desk. And gather half-written letters in front of him. His father’s message has gone unanswered for days. Patience, peace. Damen knows it by heart, but each draft of his answer sounds either trite and false, or true and bellicose. He cannot insult the Veretians further, and they will probably intercept and read any letter he tries to send. But he is his father’s heir and the son of an entire country. His blood aches for retaliation and restored dignity.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until amorphous shapes swirl before his eyes.

He should also write to Nikandros. His friend is probably wondering why Damen has not come back to the house, but how could he risk it? He glances longingly at his bed. In Akielos, Kyma and Helena would already have been sitting by it, waiting for his embrace, but this is Vere and Damen has suffered dearly because of his ardor.

He drags the plate of berries toward him. Small pleasures.

They are a bit tart against his tongue, and Damen eats them slowly, savoring the mix of sugar and sourness.

He turns back to his unfinished letters, tapping his pen rhythmically against the paper, wishing for inspiration. He has written half of a letter he knows he can never send – it sounds far too meek- when his stomach twists. The pain leaves him gasping for breath. It is nothing like Damen has ever felt and suspicion blooms bright in his mind. He glances warily at the empty plate by his elbow.

“No,” Damen mutters to himself. “He wouldn’t dare.”

But his stomach seizes again as if a hand had reached within his entrails and twisted.

“That little-” Damen groans and rushes to his chamber pot, pushing two fingers in his mouth until he lets out a long stream of bile and undigested food in the copper bowl.

He stays on his knees afterwards, fingers scratching uselessly against the tiles, hoping and hoping. Uselessly. His stomach clenches against, burning and tearing until his eyes are brimming with tears.

Damen makes himself stand.

 

He’s drenched in sweat and barely lucid when he reaches Paschal’s rooms.

“I told you not to come back here,” Paschal scowls, but as he sees Damen clutching the doorway, the physician rushes forward. “What now?”

Damen hears himself laugh and promptly throws up on Paschal’s shoes. It’s more blood than bile now, he notices absentmindedly as darkness creeps at the edge of his vision.

Paschal slaps him, hard. “What did you eat?”

When Damen does not answer, Paschal slaps him again.

“Rabbit,” Damen mumbles. Yes, the rabbit had been juicy and cooked to perfection. Creamy sauce, creamy mashed potatoes. Vere’s food is heavy and delicious; he’ll admit to that. “Berries.”

“Berries? What kind of berries?” Paschal asks but Damen is too busy contemplating his hands. They seem vaguely green and undulate like waves in front of his eyes.

Paschal grips his chin brutally.

“Focus, Damianos,” the physician insists, voice gone urgent. “Which berries?”

“Sweet, covered in sugar,” Damen says. “Like we have at home, but red, brighter.”

He collapses when Paschal releases his chin.

He thinks of Laurent, of the angry twist of his mouth as he threatened Damen.

_Third time’s the charm._

There are fingers in his mouth, prying his mouth open. Damen moans, trying to push away, but the fingers are persistent and force a piece of wet charcoal in his mouth.  

“Don’t be a child,” Paschal snaps. “Eat this.”

Damen chokes on the lump.

 _I’m already dying, no need to make it worse,_ Damen thinks, ridiculously.

“Swallow! Quickly!” Paschal insists.

The lump of charcoal goes down like fire in his throat.  

Theomedes may have been strict, but he was always kind. Damen remembers his scent, the warm weight of his hand as he slowly narrated stories of heroes and beasts. The smell of Ios in the summer, the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs, he will never hear them again. Damen died when he heard Auguste gasp around the steel of his sword.

“No more,” Damen finds himself pleading after he throws up another lump. The stone floor is covered in grime, bile turned black by dissolving charcoal. Paschal ignores and presses another small piece of charcoal in his hand. It is wet, covered in a slimly substance, smelling faintly of garlic and vinegar. It leaves a sharp taste on his tongue that Damen knows he will remember the rest of his life.

Paschal forces him to swallow four more pieces and relents only when Damen manages not to throw up three in a row.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” Paschal announces, wiping his brow. “So I can keep an eye on you.”

Damen has no strength to protest and he drags himself to his bed.

 _His bed,_ Damen thinks woefully. After all, he had spent more time in the sickroom that in the chambers they assigned to him since his arrival in Arles. It hits him then, that Laurent truly means to kill him despite the outrage it would cause in Ios and that the Regent will let this happen.

 

He must dose off at some point as Paschal shakes him awake abruptly. The room is still dark, lit only by a few oil torches, casting sharp shadows against Leyandre, who watches him silently at the end of his bed.

“Drink,” Paschal says and thrusts a tall glass at him.

Damen does.

“Somehow I am not surprised that you survived this,” Leyandre comments mildly. “Although I am unsure whether I should congratulate the quick thinking of your physician or your sheer stubbornness.”

Damen drags a hand across his eyes.

“The physician without a doubt,” Damen says and because it seems he will never learn, adds, “or perhaps you should put the blame on the Prince. After all, using poison is quite underhanded and leaves much room to chance. I fear Laurent’s standards are slipping.”

Paschal betrays his shock with a sharp intake of breath but the Captain chuckles. “The prince had a feeling you would say that. He bade me to give you this and reassure you of his commitment.”

Damen does not quite manage to catch the small jar that the captain throws at him. It bounces against the mattress. It takes a moment for Damen to will his hand to work and pick it up.

The jar is full with candied berries.

_That little shit._

“Noted,” Damen says and curls up on his side, dragging the coverlet over his shoulder. He falls asleep again, clutching the jar in one hand against his stomach.

                                     

Paschal wakes him several times during the night to push a glass of water in his hand, staying until Damen drains it. The constant disturbances leave Damen exhausted, unable to find a restful slumber. Instead, he is barely lucid, toying with the edge of consciousness.

He sees the sea, blue and calm. Waves come crashing against his calves, pulsing in unison with his blood. How he misses the sea, the fresh air in his lungs brushing salt against his hair until it stands tangled and untamed on his head. He loves the sea, loves its violence and ruthlessness, loves its beauty. The wind rises, slapping his cheeks. It whistles in his ears and Damen raises his arms to embrace it.

A crash brings him back to Arles in an instant, leaving the sea behind, and Damen lurches in his bed, unbalanced.

There are two figures crouched on the floor and for an instant, Damen’s heart seizes with fear. 

_What now?_

He scrambles uselessly for an inexistent weapon at his side, before he recognizes Paschal’s robe crouched on the stone floor.

A piercing wail shatters the quiet night and Damen lurches forward.

“You know you can’t come here,” he hears Paschal says, voice desperate. “Go back to your rooms, I’ll come to you.”

This is a refrain that Damen has heard often.                 

“What’s wrong with him?” Damen asks as he stumbles closer. He kneels next to Eliante, curling his hand behind the boy’s head. “What’s wrong?”

“He took it,” Eliante wails and shoves his arm against Damen.

Damen raises the sleeve to his elbow, revealing skin crisscrossed with angry red welts but bare of any gold.

“He took it,” Eliante whimpers, nails running along his forearm leaving faint red lines that mix with the darker bruises left by the missing arm cuff. “I was good, so good, but he took it.”

“What-” Damen whispers. 

“I’m not too old,” Eliante hiccups.

The boy lurches forward, catching Damen’s face between his shaking fingers. Up close, his eyes are wild.  

“I’m still beautiful, aren’t I?” he says, and presses his lips to Damen’s mouth. Time stand stills as the boy’s lips slot over his, shock stripping him of a reaction. He feels heaving puffs of hair against his cheeks as Eliante tries to control his emotions until a soft whimper, half pain, half pleasure, restores his faculties. Eliante keens as Damen jerks away and curls up like a wounded animal, face twisted with betrayal and despair.

“Hush now,” Paschal whispers and he tilts the boy’s head back, pouring the content of a small spoon past the boy’s parted lips, petting the boy’s hair until his breath evens out and his face goes slack under the effect of drugs.

Damen feels like the best of fools. He has seen this before in the lower levels of the captial, the erratic behavior of those in withdrawal, the happy abandonment of those under its influence. Damen was too busy playing tavla to see what was right before his eyes.

Eliante gives him a beatific smile but his gaze goes past him, lost in the distance and unfocused. “I’ll get it back. He’ll love me again.”

Damen feels himself flush, ears ringing with white noise as his hand reaches for the edge of the boy’s shirt. There are faint marks around the boy’s hips, four stripes of red, the longest almost reaching his navel, and two deeper indents near the dips of his spine, where two thumbs might have pressed down. 

“Lord, don’t-” Paschal begs when Damen lifts the shirt higher, revealing the boy’s naked back. Milky white like the skin of his most beautiful slave, but sullied by streaks of-

Paschal slaps his hand away, but it’s too late. Damen forces his eyes to stay wide open and to confront the ugly reality. Still, it takes a few seconds for it to sink, for truth to take root and, for pure, white rage to rise up. 

“You miserable-” He has Paschal by the throat before he realizes it. “He’s just a child! Look at him!”

“Release me,” Paschal coughs. “You don’t understand-”

“You ply him with drugs and send him running back to his master to be raped and abused! What is it that I don’t understand?”

“What I give him makes it tolerable-”

“Tolerable,” Damen repeats, his voice like a growl. “Tolerable for whom? For you to have a good night’s rest? Have you no shame?”

“Stay out of this,” Paschal says and he shakes off Damen’s grasp off. “This is beyond your reach.”

“You think you can order me around,” Damen says, and he hears his voice go deep and threatening. “You’re just a physician. Do not forget who I am.”

“You are the man who keeps ending up in my care, brought down by the wiles of a thirteen-year-old boy,” Paschal snaps. “The man who I could have left to die in his own sick only hours ago. I would advise you to remember that, and remember that you are a stranger here.”

Eliante’s lips still move soundlessly, but he hasn’t shifted, not even blinked.

“The laws,” Damen says. “Surely, there are laws. If you take this to the public-”

“Enough, boy,” Paschal snaps. “Some men and their crimes are beyond laws.”

“The Regent would-”

Paschal slams his hand down on the floor, his voice is like a slap. “Don’t you ever listen?”

Abruptly, understanding dawns on Damen.

“No-”

He remembers Eliante’s smile as Damen questioned about Laurent. He had been so focused on the prince that he didn’t- he didn’t see. He didn’t _think._

“No- no.”

_I am your ally in this._

“You see,” Paschal repeats. “Some men are beyond laws. You should know that better than most, Lord.”

“You are just a coward,” Damen snarls. “A despicable, spineless coward.”

Paschal shakes his head. “As you said, I am just the physician.”

 

His father’s letter is on his desk, still full of words of patience and peace in the hope of returning Damen to his rightful place. He puts down the small jar of berries and picks the letter up. It crumples with a satisfying crunch in Damen’s fist.

There is beauty in Vere. In their literature, in their architecture and heavy food but now Damen smells the rot underneath it all, barely concealed by a thin layer of gold and perfume.

 _Forgive me, Father,_ Damen thinks and turns his mind to what he should have done weeks ago.

Escape.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no beta, would appreciate one, this is my second language, how do you english sometimes really. Don't hesitate to leave me a comment, you guys!


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